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THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 


BY  THE  SAME   AUTHOR 


ROBERT  SHENSTONE 
A  NOVEL 


THE  BODLEY  HEAD 


THE  FATHER 
OF  A  SOLDIER 

BY    IF.    J.    T>AJVSON 


LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

NEW  YORK:  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

MCMXVIIl 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 


THE  HIGHER  CHOICE 

At  last  the  tragic  hour  arrives  : 
Wilt  thou  he  faithful  to  thy  soul 

And  live  the  only  life  that  lives, 

Or  that'  which  mortals  call  the  whole  ? 

In  thee,  behind  all  smiles  and  mirth, 
There  lurks  in  being's  inmost  cell 

A  Power,  a  something  not  of  earth, 
Steadfast,  serene,  unconquerable. 

TJiou  recognizest  life  and  death. 
Thou  movest  in  thy  right  of  will, 

Subdued  by  love,  yet  with  free  breath 
Obeying  higher  promptings  still. 

This  is  the  Power  I  cannot  touch. 
Which  flashes  on  me  unsubdued, 

Nor  shotdd  I  love  thee  half  so  much. 
Nor  half  so  deeply,  if  I  could. 

Thai  thou  art  mine  is  partly  true. 
With  me  thou  art  content  to  dwell  ; 

A  closer  vision  tells  me,  too, 

That  thou  art  wholly  God's  as  well. 


The  Father  of  a  Soldier 


THE  PARTINGS 


I  HAVE  just  returned  from  the  Docks,  and 
have  seen  my  son  off  for  his  third  trip  to 
the  trenches. 

Beside  the  landing-stage  lay  a  ship 
strangely  camouflaged,  as  if  a  company  of 
cubist  artists  had  been  at  work  upon  her. 
She  looked  like  an  old  lady  of  sober  habits, 
who  had  been  caught  in  the  madness  of 
carnival,  and  dressed  as  a  zany.  She  was 
adorned — or  disfigured — by  stripes  of  colour 
that  ran  in  all  directions,  splashings  of 
green,  splotches  of  grey,  curves  of  dull  red, 
all  mixed  in  uttermost  confusion  and  with 
no  discernible  design.    I  was  told  that  this 

B  ^ 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

extraordinary  appearance  was  designed  to 
give  the  ship  invisibility  :  thus  clothed  she 
would  flee  like  a  ghost  over  the  grey  perilous 
waters,  a  phantom  thing  of  blurred  outlines, 
as  if  evoked  from  the  waters  themselves. 

There  was  none  of  the  cheerful  bustle  one 
usually  sees  on  a  departing  ship.  Tired  men, 
with  keen,  searching  eyes,  stood  at  the 
gangways,  scrutinizing  each  passenger  as  he 
came  aboard.  There  were  very  few  pas- 
sengers— a  little  group  of  officers  in  khaki, 
a  haggard-eyed  elderly  man  who  carried  a 
conspicuous  portfolio,  and  two  women  in 
black,  cheerfully  adorned  in  the  American 
fashion  with  large  bunches  of  violets  fast- 
ened to  their  waists.  At  a  little  distance 
from  the  gangway,  sitting  on  a  bale  of  mer- 
chandise, was  an  American  soldier  and  his 
wife.  She  was  quite  young,  with  fair,  wheat- 
coloured  hair  ;  her  face  was  pale  and  drawn, 
and  her  fingers  twitched  as  she  talked. 
Those  twitching  fingers  were  never  still. 
They  beat  a  tattoo  on  the  bale,  opened  and 


THE  PARTINGS 


closed  spasmodically,  pushed  back  a  strand 
of  the  fair  hair  that  fell  over  her  forehead, 
fixed  themselves  on  a  button  of  her  hus- 
band's tunic.  She  did  not  weep  ;  she  looked 
as  if  she  had  exhausted  the  power  of  weep- 
ing. Her  husband  talked  rapidly  and  softly, 
with  a  fixed  smile  upon  his  face.  I  guessed 
that  he  was  counselling  a  cheerfulness  which 
he  himself  did  not  possess. 

From  this  same  dock  I  had  seen  this  same 
ship  sail  more  than  once.  In  those  other 
days,  which  I  recalled,  there  had  been 
a  cheerful  crowd,  to  the  last  moment 
shouting  messages  and  congratulations. 
Great  boxes  of  flowers  had  been  carried 
aboard  ;  small  American  flags  had  been 
waved ;  once,  I  remember,  a  band  had 
played  in  the  moment  of  departure.  To- 
day there  was  a* grim,  brooding  silence. 
There  was  an  air  of  stealth  and  secrecy 
that  made  one  speak  in^whispers.  The  smart 
cheerful  sailors,  who  used  to  stand  at  atten- 
tion, waiting  for  the  word  to  cast  off,  had 

5 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

vanished.  The  young,  alert,  white- jacketed 
stewards  were  represented  by  two  white- 
haired  men,  who  moved  slowly  and  rarely 
lifted  their  eyes  from  the  ground.  The 
decks,  once  immaculately  clean,  were  lit- 
tered and  dirty.  Over  them  rose  those 
strange  ring-straked  masts  and  funnels, 
pitifully  absurd,  as  a  decent  citizen  might 
be  if  forced  to  stand  upon  a  pillory  in  the 
clothing  of  a  clown.  At  the  bows  two  long 
ring-straked  guns  thrust  out  their  formid- 
able snouts.  At  the  stem,  the  bulwarks 
were  cut  away,  and  another  gun  pointed  to 
the  Jersey  coast.  They  explained  the  entire 
scene.    America  was  at  war. 

On  the  stroke  of  the  hour  the  gang-plank 
was  swung  up,  and  the  little  crowd  began 
to  disperse.  My  son  looked  very  lonely  as 
he  stood  beside  the  deck-house,  watching 
us.  But  he  stood  erect,  and  presently 
raised  his  hand  in  a  military  salute.  It  was 
his  sign  to  us  that  we  had  better  go.  He 
did  not  wish  us  to  wait  till  the  ship  moved 

6 


THE  PARTINGS 


out  of  dock,  watching  her  till  she  faded  in 
the  distance. 

"  It  only  makes  it  harder  for  us  all,"  he 
said.  "  And  I  don't  want  you  to  break 
down.  Go  away  as  soon  as  the  gang-plank 
is  up,  but  don't  go  straight  home.  Get 
your  lunch  in  New  York,  and  let  it  be  a 
good  lunch.  It  won't  be  so  hard  to  go  back 
to  the  house  after  lunch,  as  if  you  went 
direct  from  the  dock.  And  don't  worry 
about  me.     I  shall  be  all  right." 

So  we  turned  away  and  walked  slowly 
down  the  long,  empty,  resounding  room. 
We  stopped  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  think- 
ing we  might  hear  the  siren  sound,  as  the 
ship  swung  seaward  ;  then  we  remembered 
that  it  was  war-time,  and  she  would  sail 
in  silence.  She  would  melt  out  into  the 
mystery  of  the  sea,  desirous  only  to  escape 
observation.  There  would  be  no  wireless 
message,  as  in  other  days,  from  that  one 
dear  traveller  who  took  our  hearts  with 
him.     Swift  as  a  hound  pursued  by  peril, 

7 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

silent  as  a  shadow,  she  would  glide  through 
the  days  and  nights  of  sea,  towards  that 
world  of  war  that  seemed  so  unreal  as  we 
looked  on  the  secure  magnificence  of  New 
York,  the  busy  river,  and  the  warm  sun- 
light that  still  held  the  benison  of  summer. 
No  messages  ?  Yes,  there  was  one. 
When  we  reached  home  a  huge  box  of 
flowers  awaited  us.  They  lit  up  the  lonely 
house  with  colour,  and  filled  it  with  per- 
fume. They  were  the  last  expression  of 
our  son's  thoughtfulness  for  us.  He  would 
not  have  us  come  back  to  a  cheerless  home  ; 
and  as  we  arranged  the  flowers  in  all  the 
vases  we  possessed  no  doubt  he  was  think- 
ing of  us,  and  picturing  to  himself  our 
surprise  and  pleasure. 

II 

This  is  the  third  time  we  have  parted  with 
him  since  the  war  began. 

The  first  time  was  at  a  miUtary  camp  in 

8 


THE  PARTINGS 


Canada.  It  was  an  artillery  camp,  situated 
on  a  wide  sandy  bluff  above  the  Ottawa 
river,  which  was  here  broad  as  a  lake.  Two 
miles  across  the  water,  facing  the  camp, 
was  a  long,  low,  rambling  hotel,  at  which 
we  stayed.  From  the  veranda  of  the 
hotel  we  could  see  the  white  tents  of  the 
camp,  and  at  night  we  watched  the  flash 
of  guns  and  heard  the  shells  burst  upon 
their  hidden  targets.  The  hotel  was  packed 
with  the  wives  of  of&cers,  and  during  the 
day  I  was  the  only  man  among  the  guests. 
A  primitive  ferry-boat,  making  far  more 
racket  than  an  ocean-liner,  plied  irregularly 
between  the  camp  and  the  hotel.  Every 
evening  officers  came  over  to  dinner,  and 
now  and  then  there  was  a  dance  in  a  long, 
dimly-lit  outbuilding,  thronged  with  mos- 
quitoes. Once  there  was  a  soldiers'  concert, 
and  a  very  creditable  showing  these  lads  in 
khaki  made,  for  there  were  excellent  actors 
and  singers  among  them. 

I  had  never  been  in  contact  with  soldiers, 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

and,  until  I  came  to  the  camp,  I  had  never 
seen  my  son  in  uniform.  I  will  confess  to 
the  pride  I  felt  when  he  met  us,  and  I  was 
conscious  of  a  great  change  in  him.  The 
long  months  of  training,  the  open-air  life, 
the  regular  habits  of  a  camp,  had  obviously 
resulted  in  a  kind  of  physical  regeneration. 
He  seemed  taller,  fuller  in  the  chest,  better 
poised  ;  he  moved  with  a  firm  step,  and  had 
acquired  an  air  of  decision  and  authority. 
I  came  to  know  the  women  in  the  hotel 
with  some  intimacy,  for  during  the  long 
hours  of  those  summer  days  we  were  natur- 
ally thrown  much  together.  I  learned  their 
histories.  Their  husbands  had  been  doctors, 
lawyers,  and  business  men  before  the  war. 
They  had  been  able  to  give  their  wives  good 
homes,  and  in  some  cases  a  degree  of  com- 
fort which  approached  modest  luxury. 
When  they  enlisted,  in  most  cases,  these 
means  of  livelihood  were  at  an  end,  or 
greatly  reduced.  Homes  had  been  given 
up,  servants  dismissed,  furniture  sold,  and 

10 


THE  PARTINGS 


children  sent  to  the  care  of  relatives.  Yet 
I  never  heard  one  of  these  women  complain 
of  the  sacrifices  she  had  made.  They  were 
uniformly  cheerful,  quiet  and  courageous. 
They  talked  of  their  narrowed  means  with 
a  kind  of  ironic  gaiety,  and  made  fun  of 
the  business  of  remaking  old  dresses,  and 
refurbishing  unfashionable  finery.  They 
swam  daily  in  the  lake — some  of  them  were 
splendid  swimmers — made  clothes,  and 
were  always  ready  for  a  dance  at  night.  I 
heard  a  whisper  of  tears  shed  secretly  in 
bedrooms  over  midnight  tea-makings,  when 
the  men  had  gone  back  to  camp  ;  but  if 
there  was  ;-orrow  it  was  private  and  very 
carefully  concealed. 

When  the  first  surprise  of  a  novel  situa- 
tion was  abated,  we  settled  down  to  our  life 
as  if  it  were  merely  a  new  kind  of  summer 
holiday.  My  son  had  hired  a  launch,  in 
which  we  made  many  pleasant  excursions 
in  the  upper  reaches  of  the  river,  where  it 
flowed  between  nobly  wooded  cliffs.     We 

II 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

visited  the  camp,  drank  tea  with  this  and 
that  officer,  talked  of  books  or  Ustened  to 
camp  gossip  ;  but  the  war  was  very  rarely 
mentioned  or  discussed.  It  looked  as  if 
there  was  a  tacit  understanding  that  it 
should  be  avoided.  Every  man  was  quietly 
prepared  to  do  his  bit  when  the  hour  came, 
but  each  knew  that  the  chance  of  active 
service  was  precarious.  They  might  go  to- 
morrow, they  might  go  in  a  year  ;  no  one 
could  tell :  and  this  uncertainty  made 
anticipation  foolish.  Now  and  again  a  small 
body  of  men  left  the  camp.  One  night  about 
a  hundred  went.  They  swung  down  the 
long  sandy  road,  in  the  bright  moonUght, 
singing,  "  Keep  the  home-fires  burning  till 
the  Boys  come  home."  But  the  camp  next 
day  looked  quite  unaltered.  The  day's 
routine  went  on  as  usual.  The  very  fact 
that  a  hundred  men  had  gone  made  it  all 
the  more  unlikely  that  another  call  would 
be  made  immediately.  When  once  we  realize 
that  happiness  is  precarious  we  cease  to 

12 


THE  PARTINGS 


think  of  its  possible  loss.  We  live  in  the 
moment,  and  ignore  the  future.  Perhaps 
we  live  even  more  intensely.  But  we 
certainly  forget  that  what  we  regard  as  a 
stable  condition  is  really  unstable,  just  as 
the  fact  of  the  brevity  of  life  itself,  abso- 
lutely known  as  it  is,  does  not  prevent  us 
from  living  as  though  life  never  ended. 

So  the  days  passed,  the  long  summer  days; 
and,  although  the  signs  of  war  were  obvious 
enough,  the  reality  of  war  was  not  appre- 
hended. The  guns  that  fired  each  night 
became  as  integral  a  part  of  the  daily 
spectacle  as  the  red  flames  of  sunset  that 
burned  behind  the  wooded  islands,  or  the 
aurora  that  played  faintly  on  warm  nights 
across  the  northern  skies. 

Then,  with  a  startling  suddenness,  as 
though  a  gong  had  struck,  the  blow  fell. 
We  had  gone  over  to  the  camp  in  our  launch 
one  afternoon  to  meet  our  son,  and  bring 
him  back  to  dinner  at  our  little  inn.  He 
was  late,  and  we  lay  beside  the  wharf  idly 

13 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

watching  the  soldiers  swimming  in  the  lake, 
and  thinking  how  picturesque  the  scene  was. 
The  white  bodies  of  the  men  flashed  in  the 
sun,  horses  splashed  in  the  shallows,  a  bugle 
called  in  the  camp  above  the  hill.  We 
heard  voices  in  the  woods,  and  footsteps  on 
the  steep  sandy  road  that  climbed  through 
the  woods  to  the  camp.  A  moment  later 
he  appeared. 

"  Well,  it  has  come,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  What  has  come  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
we  cried. 

"  I  go  in  a  week.  They've  asked  for 
artillery  officers  to  go  at  once  to  the  Front, 
to  replace  casualties  ;  I've  volunteered  and 
been  accepted." 

A  few  days  later  he  went.  We  had  our 
last  dinner  together  in  the  hotel,  and  all 
the  folk  came  down  to  the  wharf  with  us. 
An  old  Major — ^he  was  sixty-two — tried  to 
console  us  with  the  assurance  that  the  war 
was  nearly  over,  and  would  end  long  before 
my  son  could  reach  the  Front.    We  did  not 

14 


THE  PARTINGS 


believe  him,  and  he  knew  that  he  did  not 
believe  himself  ;  but  his  innocent  falsehood 
passed  uncontradicted.  The  ferry-boat,  dark 
as  King  Arthur's  barge,  lay  against  the 
wharf.  It  was  soon  filled  with  men,  stand- 
ing shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  quite  silent. 
A  hundred  yards  from  the  shadowy  wharf 
the  moon  made  a  broad  road  of  silver  on  the 
water.  The  boat  moved  off.  As  it  passed 
into  that  road  of  silver  the  men  began  to 
sing.  I  do  not  remember  what  they  sung : 
I  think  it  was  "  Keep  the  home-fires  burning 
till  the  Boys  come  home."  It  disappeared 
in  the  darkness  beyond  that  silver  road,  and 
the  sound  of  singing  voices  died  away. 

A  day  later  the  train  bore  us  westward. 
It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  we 
passed  the  camp.  I  looked  out,  and  saw 
the  white  tents,  the  rutted  roads,  and  a  long 
string  of  men  riding  slowly  against  the 
morning  sky.  I  think  I  never  felt  so  keen  a 
sense  of  emptiness  and  desolation. 

That  was  the  first  parting. 

15 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 


III 

The  second  parting  was  some  months  later. 

For  four  months  our  son  had  been  at  the 
Front,  he  had  come  to  England  on  leave, 
and  was  returning.  The  ten  wonderful  days 
in  London,  which  we  had  crossed  from 
America  to  share  with  him,  were  over,  and 
we  stood  at  the  dock  gates  in  Folkestone. 

We  were  not  allowed  to  go  further.  A 
staff  officer  drove  up  to  the  gates  with  his 
wife,  and  was  courteously  stopped.  His 
last  farewells  were  made  behind  the  curtains 
of  his  automobile,  and  his  wife  drove  back 
alone. 

No  ship  was  visible.  The  great  empty 
space  within  the  dock-gates  lay  glittering 
in  the  winter  sun.  A  bitter  wind  was  blow- 
ing. In  the  extreme  distance,  behind  a 
long  building,  we'^saw  a  pennon  fluttering 
and  a  thin  feather  of  steam  sailing  up  into 
the  sky  and  dissolving  there. 

i6 


THE  PARTINGS 


"  I  think  it  is  about  time,  sir,"  said  the 
sentry  at  the  gate. 

It  was  then  that  my  son  turned  to  me,  and 
asked  the  question  : 

"  If  you  knew  that  I  was  going  to  be 
killed  within  the  next  month,  would  you 
rather  I  went  or  stayed?  " 

"  Much  rather  you  went,"  I  answered. 

There  were  three  of  lis  standing  there 
with  him  in  that  bleak  winter  parting — ^his 
mother,  his  sister,  and  myself.  It  was  their 
answer  as  well  as  mine.  I  knew  that,  and 
he  knew  it.    We  all  felt  alike. 

Our  home  lay  three  thousand  miles  away. 
He  was  going  back  to  a  peril  that  we  now 
fully  comprehended,  we  to  a  house  whose 
loneliness  we  had  experienced.  But  some 
uplifting  Power  was  with  us  in  that  moment, 
and  by  virtue  of  that  Power  we  answered 
as  we  did  that  heart-rending  question. 

We  embraced  once  more.  He  turned 
from  us  immediately,  and  marched  proudly 
to  the  hidden  ship.    He  looked  back  once 

17 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

and  waved  his  hand,  and  disappeared.  We 
walked  away  slowly,  and  returned  that 
night  to  a  London  that  had  suddenly  be- 
come unutterably  dismal. 

"  How  is  the  city  desolate  that  was  full 
of  children  !  "  cried  Dante  of  Florence,  when 
all  that  he  had  loved  in  Florence  was  taken 
from  him.  It  was  so  we  felt  that  night  in 
London. 

And  that  was  the  second  parting. 

IV 

There  was  another  parting,  which  predates 
these  I  have  mentioned.  It  took  place  not 
at  a  camp  or  dock,  but  in  my  own  house. 
On  a  dim  January  afternoon  we  sat  at  our 
last  meal  before  my  son  took  train  for 
Kingston,  where  he  was  to  receive  training 
as  an  artillery  officer. 

We  were  all  unhappy.  The  son  who  had 
lived  with  us  so  many  years,  with  whom  I 
had  worked  so  often  in  common  literary 

i8 


THE  PARTINGS 


tasks,  whose  gentleness  of  mind  and  rare 
consideration  had  made  the  happiest  ele- 
ment in  our  lives,  was  going  away  to  un- 
known tasks  and  duties.  He  was  being 
violently  wrenched  from  us,  as  by  a  brutal 
and  strong  hand.  The  fine  efficiency,  which 
he  had  won  with  so  many  years  of  effort, 
was  to  be  discarded.  He  was  going  to  a 
kind  of  life  in  which  all  this  fine  efficiency 
was  valueless.  He  was  about  to  begin  life 
again  upon  what  seemed  an  infinitely  lower 
scale.  The  irony,  the  bitterness  of  the 
thing  seized  upon  me,  and  I  cried,  "  What 
I  can't  stand  is  the  damnable  waste  of  it 
all." 

I  ought  not  to  have  said  it,  for  I  knew 
that  it  would  hurt  him.  But  the  cry  was 
involuntary.  It  sprang  from  an  over- 
whelming pain.  For  months  I  had  been 
upon  the  rack,  foreseeing  his  decision  and 
dreading  it.  I  had  tried  to  see  things  from 
his  point  of  view  and  had  failed.  I  could 
see  nothing  but  the  waste  of  rare  powers 

c  19 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

which  war  demanded,  and  my  cry  was  in 
reality  a  protest  against  the  undiscriminat- 
ing  heartlessness  of  war  itself. 

The  point,  then,  that  I  wish  to  make  is 
now  plain.  The  person  who  spoke  beside 
the  dock-gates  at  Folkestone  was  certainly 
not  the  person  who  spoke  that  January 
afternoon  in  my  house  at  Newark.  They 
are  separated  by  more  than  a  hemisphere. 
They  speak  a  different  language.  They 
think  upon  a  different  plane. 

The  father  who  said  farewell  to  his  son 
on  that  dark  wharf  upon  the  Ottawa  has 
a  certain  likeness  to  the  father  who  turned 
from  the  dock  in  New  York  dry-eyed  but 
yesterday.  But  here,  too,  there  is  a  wide 
disparity.  On  that  night  of  parting  at  the 
camp,  I  was  sustained  by  illusion.  I  was 
ready  to  believe  that  going  to  England  did 
not  mean  necessarily  going  to  France.  My 
son  might  not  see  fighting  after  all,  and  I 
devoutly  hoped  he  would  not.  But  beside 
the  dock  at  Folkestone  and  the  wharf  at 

20 


THE  PARTINGS 


New  York,  I  was  sustained  by  no  illusions. 
I  knew  now  the  reality  of  war.  My  son 
had  endured  its  horrors.  He  had  lived  in 
a  miserable  dug-out,  roofed  with  the  dead. 
He  had  been  wounded,  had  nearly  lost  his 
right  arm,  and  been  for  two  months  in 
hospital.  He  had  escaped  death  almost  by 
miracle. 

He  was  going  back  to  it  all,  and  going 
back  to  a  harder  fight  than  he  had  ever 
known.  He  would  again  spend  bitter  nights 
of  cold  at  the  observation  post,  take  his 
guns  in  under  fire,  be  exposed  to  the  flying 
death  of  shrapnel,  the  chance  of  mutilation, 
the  contamination  of  disease.  I  knew  it  all : 
the  dreadful  panorama  of  battle  was  vivid 
to  me  from  his  own  description  ;  illusion 
was  impossible,  yet  from  my  heart  I  could 
say  that  I  had  rather  a  thousandfold  that 
he  should  go  back  than  remain  at  home  in 
an  ignoble  safety. 

Here  is  surely  a  surprising  evolution.  It 
has  come  unsought.    It  is  a  growth,  not  the 

21 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 


difficult  achievement  of  deliberate  e^ort. 
While  we  try  to  shape  our  own  lives,  they 
are  shaped  for  us  ;  while  we  work,  we  are 
worked  upon.  A  new  set  of  forces  have 
played  upon  my  life,  and  I  know  myself 
changed.  The  same  forces  are  working  at 
this  hour  on  multitudes  round  about  me. 
They  are  equally  unsought  ;  perhaps  equally 
uncomprehended  and  unwelcomed. 

It  is  very  confusing  for  a  man  whose 
entire  concept  of  life  has  been  pacific  to 
find  himself  the  father  of  a  soldier.  It  is 
still  more  surprising  that  he  should  find 
himself  in  most  intimate  agreement  with 
his  son.  Yet  in  all  evolution  there  is  order, 
discernible  process,  definite  development. 
I  see  now,  what  I  could  not  see  while  the 
separate  elements  of  the  process  were  at 
work,  that  the  total  process  has  been 
orderly.  I  have  moved  by  definite  stages 
to  a  new  development,  a  new  temper,  a  new 
view  of  life.  I  wish  now  to  trace  these 
stages,  not  for  my  own  satisfaction  only, 

22 


THE   PARTINGS 


but  that  I  may  possibly  be  of  help  to  others, 
who  may  learn  through  my  experience 
whither  their  own  experience  is  leading 
them.  The  whole  world  is  being  fashioned 
anew,  and  in  this  remoulding  of  human 
thought  parents  participate  as  well  as  sons. 
The  son  becomes  a  new  kind  of  son  when  he 
is  a  soldier,  and  the  father  must  needs 
become  a  new  kind  of  father. 


23 


THE  PEOPLE'S  CAUSE 

0  People,  must  the  tale  run  on  the  same, 

Thro'  all  the  generations,  soon  and  late. 
The  lamentations  of  a  fruitless  shame. 

The  broken  armies  bowed  to  meet  their  fate? 
Is  all  in  vain — the  flaming  barricade, 

The  Cross,  the  gallows,  the  red  guillotine. 
And  all  your  marred  redeemers,  each  one  made 

A  sacrifice  for  thy  new  sloth  and  sin  ? 
When  will  ye  come,  no  more  disconsolate, 

With  banners  terrible,  and  feet  of  flame, 
Treading  the  wine-press  of  the  grapes  of  wrath, 

In  purple  raiment,  travelling  in  your  might, 
With  Him  Who  long  since  trod  the  self-same  path. 

And  died  in  darkness  that  you  might  have  light  ? 

0  People,  shall  these  lesser  Kings  of  clay 

Once  more  weld  cruel  chains  about  your  feet  ? 
Shall  lords  of  Mammon  your  great  progress  stay. 

Or  counsel  you  with  craft  to  vile  retreat  ? 
Great  Rome,  with  all  her  legions,  slew  you  not, 

ProuZ  Paris  kissed  for  peace  your  brows  blood-hued, 
You  were  not  crushed  by  Ccesar's  chariot  ; 

With  Jesus  crucified,  in  life  renewed 
You  lived  again.    And  shall  you  fear  to  greet 

The  flaming  pennon  of  your  ultimate  day. 
Bought  with  a  little  gold  to  serve  the  lust 

Of  those  who  build  an  empire  on  your  pain  ? 
Once  more  the  Spirit  stirs  the  bones  of  dust, 

0  ye  dry  bones,  let  Him  not  call  in  vain. 


25 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF  WAR 


My  mind  goes  back  to  the  summer  of  1914. 

This  year  had  been  the  wonderful  year 
of  our  hves.  As  a  family,  we  had  known 
some  vicissitudes,  but  we  had  now  passed 
through  all  the  broken  waters,  and  were 
afloat  upon  a  bright  and  placid  stream. 
June  found  us  -all  together  upon  our  ranch 
in  British  Columbia.  We  planned  to  remain 
there  a  month,  and  then  sail  for  England. 
It  was  an  extravagant  holiday,  but  things 
had  happened  to  us  which  deserved  our 
unusual  celebration. 

The  ranch  was  actually  the  creation  of 
my  second  son,  Reginald.  He  had  gone  to 
it  almost  a  boy,  fresh  from  college,  without 
the  least  experience  of  physical  toil.    When 

27 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

he  first  saw  it,  it  was  wild  bush,  with  not 
more  than  an  acre  cleared  and  cultivated. 
Up  the  lake,  which  was  to  us  in  those  sum- 
mer days  so  great  a  pleasure,  he  had  rowed 
one  dark  night  in  a  leaky  boat,  with  the 
vaguest  surmise  of  what  he  was  to  find.  A 
friendly  rancher  gave  him  shelter  for  the 
night,  and  bluntly  expressed  the  opinion 
that  he  would  never  "  stick  it."  He  explored 
his  little  kingdom  next  day,  wading  through 
cedar  swamps,  and  climbing  over  fallen 
forest  trees.  His  first  job  was  to  build  a 
frail  shack  which  must  be  his  home.  The 
isolation  and  the  loneliness  of  the  scene 
were  disma5dng.  Bears  were  heard  quarrel- 
ling in  the  woods,  on  the  winter  nights  the 
coyotes  cried  like  women  in  mortal  pain, 
and  it  was  no  unusual  circumstance  to  be 
followed  by  the  soft  stealthy  pad  of  the 
mountain-lion  as  one  climbed  the  trail  at 
night.  Nevertheless,  he  "  stuck  it,"  and 
not  till  long  afterwards  did  we  know  the 
hardness  of  his  first  experience. 

28 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF   WAR 

Since  these  days  a  miracle  had  been 
wrought  by  the  simple  magic  of  courage. 
The  forests  had  been  felled,  the  swamps 
drained,  and  acre  after  acre  added  to  the 
ranch.  Its  very  soil  had  become  sacred  to 
us  all  by  these  labours.  We  loved  it  for  its 
beauty,  but  much  more  for  the  precious 
treasure  of  youth  which  had  passed  into 
its  soil  and  hallowed  it.  In  course  of  time 
my  youngest  son,  Eric,  came  to  the  same 
district  to  be  near  his  brother.  He  was 
studying  law  in  the  neighbouring  town  of 
Nelson,  at  the  foot  of  the  lake.  So,  then, 
the  situation  may  be  conceived.  The  sum- 
mer brought  a  reunion  very  rare  in  family 
life.  Even  with  the  plan  to  visit  England 
duly  laid,  we,  who  lived  three  thousand 
miles  away,  could  not  forgo  our  visit  to 
the  ranch.  We  hastened  to  it,  my  wife,  my 
daughter,  myself,  and  this  year  my  eldest 
son,  with  winged  feet. 

The  summer  days  passed  in  joyous 
pageant.    One  plain  log-house  sheltered  us, 

29 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

and  our  life  was  primitive  in  the  extreme. 
We  all  realized  the  truth  of  the  classic  fable, 
that  he  who  touches  his  mother  earth 
draws  new  strength  from  her  embrace. 
There  was  boating  in  the  lake,  continual 
swimming,  and  excursions  into  the  wild 
hills,  which  had  known  no  change  for  cen- 
turies, and  the  foot  of  man  but  rarely.  In 
the  early  morning  Eric  rode  into  the  town  ; 
as  the  sunset  washed  the  hills  with  crimson, 
we  waited  for  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs 
upon  the  road,  and  found  our  happiness 
complete  with  his  arrival.  We  each  felt 
that  we  had  attained,  after  many  trials,  a 
complete  and  harmonious  plan  of  hfe.  The 
ranch  itself,  no  longer  swamp  and  forest, 
but  clothed  in  orchards,  was  the  symbol  of 
achievement.  Thus  would  we  meet  each 
year,  here  should  the  family  bond  be  drawn 
closer  by  common  pleasure,  and  the  inti- 
mate communion  of  mind  with  mind,  based 
on  common  memories  and  affections.  Here 
should  books  be  planned  and  written,  our 

30 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF  WAR 

various  schemes  of  life  discussed,  our  simple 
festivals  of  love  be  celebrated.  So  we 
talked  and  planned,  not  knowing  that  this 
was  the  last  occasion  when  we  should  be  all 
together  on  the  ranch — that  to-day  it  would 
be  uninhabited  and  derelict. 

One  day  the  idea  suddenly  took  shape 
that  Reginald  should  come  with  us  to  Eng- 
land. We  had  never  thought  of  this  as 
possible,  but  in  our  existing  mood  of  high 
spirits  all  things  were  possible.  His  eldest 
brother  insisted  on  it ;  his  youngest,  fore- 
seeing his  own  solitude,  was  unselfishly 
urgent  that  he  should  go.  He  had  deserved 
it,  but  in  the  constant  self-denials  of  his 
life  he  was  not  accustomed  to  think  much 
of  his  deserts.  It  was  ten  years  since  he 
had  left  England.  We  had  all  been  back, 
but  he  had  not  seen  her  green  shores  since 
he  left  them  as  a  lad  of  eighteen.  Instantly 
there  was  wild  riding  to  and  fro,  to  find  some 
one  who  would  look  after  things  in  his 
absence.     A  suitable  overseer  was  found. 

31 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

The  good  luck  was  so  incredible  that  I  think 
he  only  half  believed  it  true,  until  the  hour 
when  his  valise  was  packed,  and  lay  upon  the 
wharf  waiting  for  the  steamer.  For  myself, 
I  had  scarcely  thought  to  see  England  again; 
at  least,  not  for  many  years.  I  had  a  private 
reason,  which  I  knew  to  be  unreasonable, 
yet  it  was  very  real  to  me.  I  had  always 
intended  taking  my  youngest  child  to  Eng- 
land with  me  when  next  I  went  ;  but  I  had 
delayed  too  long.  She  was  dead,  and  I  felt 
as  though  I  had  not  acted  fairly  by  her.  But 
even  that  morbid  sorrow  seemed  to  dissolve 
at  last  in  the  joy  of  this  united  pilgrimage 
to  the  dear  home  land.  God  had  given  us 
so  much  that  summer  that  I  could  not  but 
be  grateful,  nor  could  I  permit  the  private 
accusations  of  a  wounded  heart  to  spoil  the 
joy  of  others. 

So  then,  I  say  again,  conceive  the  situa- 
tion. Our  lives  had  touched  a  fine  excess 
of  happiness.  We  were  much  too  absorbed 
in  it  to  be  greatly  interested  by  outside 

32 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF   WAR 

affairs.  The  daily  paper  was  flung  aside, 
almost  unread.  Our  casual  eyes  remarked 
nothing  of  importance  in  external  events. 
We  were  going  to  England,  going  together, 
all  but  one  of  us — nothing  in  the  world 
could  equal  the  significance  of  that  event. 
And  yet,  in  those  very  days,  unremarked 
by  us,  events  were  happening  that  were  to 
touch  our  lives  to  the  very  core,  alter  the 
current  of  our  thoughts,  and  reshape  our 
characters  to  an  undiscemed  design. 


II 

An  Archduke  had  been  murdered  some- 
where in  the  Balkans.  Let  the  fact 
be  stated  with  circumstantial  accuracy : 
"  Archduke  Franz  Ferdinand,  heir  to  the 
throne  of  Austria-Hungary,  and  the  Arch- 
duchess Sophie  Chotek  were  assassinated 
to-day  at  Serajevo,  capital  of  the  Austro- 
Hungarian  province  of  Bosnia,  by  a  Bosnian 
student,  Gavrio  Prinzip." 

33 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

So  read  the  paragraph  that  was  flashed 
round  the  world  on  a  June  morning  of  1914. 

It  seemed  of  very  small  importance  to 
the  world  that  an  Archduke  had  dis- 
appeared. Certainly  it  was  an  event  totally 
unrelated  to  my  own  humble  existence. 
Who  could  have  foreseen  that  a  bloody 
hand  would  presently  thrust  itself  up  out 
of  Serajevo,  a  hand  with  vast,  groping,  cruel 
fingers  that  was  to  pluck  twenty  million 
men  out  of  homes  and  lands,  and  fling  them, 
unresisting,  into  the  vile  Aceldama  of  War  ? 

Had  such  a  prophecy  been  made  in  those 
last  days  of  June  1914,  it  would  not  have 
been  believed.  Least  of  all  by  me,  for  I  had 
come  to  think  of  war  as  an  anachronism. 
I  was  not  a  pacifist  in  the  usual  sense  of  the 
term.  I  thought  Tolstoi's  doctrine  of  non- 
resistance  nonsense,  and  I  was  unwilling  to 
admit  that  war  was  at  all  times  and  on  all 
occasions  incompatible  with  Christianity. 
I  could  conceive  a  just  war,  but  I  could  not 
conceive  the  injustice  that  would  provoke 

34 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF   WAR 

it.  Time  had  taught  men  many  lessons, 
the  chief  of  which  was  to  replace  force  by 
reason,  and  passion  by  the  useful  wisdom 
ot  mutual  advantage.  The  mind  of  man, 
more  highly  rationalized  with  each  genera- 
tion, had  inevitably  moved  away  from  war, 
which  was  the  supreme  unreason.  Arbitra- 
tion was  the  new  word  of  statesmanship, 
and  the  Peace  Palace  at  The  Hague  was  its 
symbol. 

So  I  supposed,  as  all  rational  men  sup- 
posed in  the  summer  of  1914,  that  the 
murder  of  an  Archduke  in  Serajevo  was  an 
incident  of  no  general  significance.  Nor 
was  I  alarmed  when  threats  of  revenge, 
which  slowly  grew  into  the  menacing  voice 
of  War,  began  to  be  heard.  There  was 
always  trouble  in  the  Balkans,  as  Kipling 
had  reminded  us  in  one  of  his  books,  and  it 
usually  came  to  nothing.  Besides,  I  had 
other  things  to  think  of.  Our  trip  to  Eng- 
land was  not  to  be  postponed  by  obscure 
conditions  in  the  Balkans  :   our  berths  were 

D  35 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

already  booked  on  a  Canadian  steamer. 
We  started  on  the  appointed  day,  travel- 
ling across  the  entire  breadth  of  Canada 
to  Quebec,  from  which  port  we  were  to 
sail. 

It  was  in  the  last  days  of  July  when  we 
began  that  six  days'  journey  across  Canada. 
By  this  time  we  had  begun  to  realize  that 
war  was  imminent,  and  that  there  was  a 
remote  possibility  that  England  might  be 
involved.  As  we  sped  eastward,  that  dis- 
tant voice  of  war  began  to  swell  louder,  like 
a  thunder-storm  that  was  determined  to  out- 
race  us.  There  were  moments  when  I 
could  fancy  that  bloody  hand,  with  cruel, 
groping  fingers,  pushing  itself  up  above  the 
mountains,  in  growing  menace.  Prudence 
suggested  that  it  might  be  unwise  to  go  on. 
If  England  were  drawn  into  war,  it  was 
highly  probable  that  we  should  reach 
Quebec  only  to  discover  that  no  ship  was 
allowed  to  sail.  But  we  were  possessed  by 
an  obstinate   thirst   for  happiness   which 

36 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF  WAR 

discounted  our  reasonable  fears.  It  was 
just  then  the  most  important  thing  in  life 
for  us  that  we  should  see  England,  and  see 
it  together,  as  we  had  so  long  dreamed  of 
doing,  and  we  were  not  to  be  deterred  by 
so  small  a  thing  as  the  murder  of  an  Arch- 
duke at  Serajevo. 

We  could  get  little  news  upon  our  journey. 
The  news  service  on  the  train  was  suspen- 
ded. Local  papers  were  hard  to  get,  and 
were  of  little  use.  At  Winnipeg,  where  we 
confidently  anticipated  accurate  informa- 
tion, the  news-stalls  were  closed,  no  paper 
was  obtainable,  and  not  so  much  as  a  tele- 
gram was  posted  on  the  bulletin  board. 
We  had  forgotten  that  it  was  Sunday,  and 
that  Winnipeg  kept  the  Sabbath  with  exem- 
plary strictness.  At  last  we  reached  Mon- 
treal, and  there  the  real  truth  met  us,  that 
England  had  declared  war  on  Germany. 
We  reached  Quebec  the  same  evening.  The 
streets  were  thronged,  bands  were  playing, 
the  "  Marseillaise  "  was  being  sung  every- 

37 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

where,  and  orators,  both  French  and  English, 
were  addressing  shouting  crowds  from  the 
base  of  Champlain's  monument.  Of  course 
the  sailing  of  our  ship  was  postponed,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  events. 
We  drove  about  the  city,  visited  the  Falls 
of  Montmorency,  walked  upon  the  Heights 
of  Abraham,  talked  of  the  death  of  Wolfe, 
and  drew  from  his  heroic  history  pleasant 
conclusions  on  the  might  of  England  and 
the  traditional  glory  of  her  armies.  All  the 
time  we  were  profoundly  uneasy,  not  over 
public  events,  but  the  precariousness  of  our 
own  plans.  It  became  a  matter  of  eager 
debate  whether  or  no  we  should  give  up  our 
trip.  German  cruisers  were  reported  in  the 
Atlantic,  and  I  drew  a  very  convincing 
picture  of  myself  and  my  family  captured 
and  held  as  prisoners  of  war.  We  actually 
went  so  far  as  to  drive  to  the  shipping  office 
to  cancel  our  tickets.  We  did  not  do  so 
because  at  that  very  moment  a  lying  tele- 
gram,   called   official,    was   posted   in   the 

38 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF  WAR 

hotel  and  circulated  in  the  city,  announcing 
that  the  British  Fleet  had  met  the  German, 
destroying  eighteen  battleships,  and  cap- 
turing as  many  more,  besides  an  incredible 
number  of  cruisers  and  torpedo  boats.  Who 
originated  this  gigantic  falsehood,  and  how 
it  came  to  be  stamped  official,  are  mysteries 
unsolved  to  this  day.  Of  course  we  believed 
it.  Apparently  the  shipping  authorities 
believed  it,  too,  for  late  at  night  we  went 
aboard  our  boat,  and  in  the  hot  still  dawn 
of  the  next  day  she  put  out  to  sea. 

We  crossed  in  perfect  safety,  and,  thanks 
to  that  lying  telegram,  without  a  single  un- 
easy thought .  In  those  long  sunny  days  and 
warm  starry  nights  at  sea,  we  came  almost 
to  think  the  fact  of  war,  made  so  patent  to 
us  in  Quebec,  was  a  delusion.  True,  the 
ship  was  painted  grey,  no  lights  were  shown 
at  night,  and  we  were  running  sixty  miles 
out  of  our  course,  but  life  on  board  ship 
retained  its  customary  air  of  security  and 
pleasure.     There   was    the   usual    cheerful 

39 


THE   FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

intercourse  among  the  passengers ;  there 
were  deck-sports  and  games,  and  an  admir- 
able concert  given  by  members  of  the  crew, 
in  which  the  comic  element  prevailed. 
There  were  a  few  military  men  aboard,  but 
they  were  the  most  unconcerned  of  all  the 
passengers  ;  they  showed  themselves  par- 
ticularly keen  on  the  deck-sports,  but  they 
were  quite  silent  about  the  war.  One  old 
Major-General,  who  had  served  in  the  South 
African  war,  was  alone  communicative. 
He  was  quite  sure  that  the  defeat  of 
Germany  would  be  rapid  and  complete. 
One  thing  he  said  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
prophecy : 

"  We  learned  one  thing  from  the  Boer 
War — the  value  of  open  formation.  Ger- 
many has  never  learned  it.  You  mark 
my  words,  she  will  attack  in  close  for- 
mation.    She  depends  on  mass  attacks." 

His  words  gave  me  a  comfortable  sense 
of  the  superiority  of  British  strategy,  and 
my  confidence  was  strengthened  when  he 

40 


THE  FIRST   VISION  OF  WAR 

remarked  that  the  only  nation  with  any 
actual  experience  of  modern  war  was  the 
British,  which  was  always  more  or  less  at 
war,  whereas  Germany  had  not  fired  a  gun 
since  1870. 

"  Then  you  think  the  war  won't  last 
long  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  cannot.  It  is  impossible  for 
Germany  to  stand  up  against  Great  Britain, 
France  and  Russia.  The  Franco-Prussian 
War  only  lasted  six  weeks.  This  may  be 
even  shorter." 

I  saw  my  two  sons  on  the  forward  deck 
engaged  in  a  game  of  deck-quoits,  and 
I  remembered  the  Boer  War  when  the 
C.I.V.'s  were  recruited  in  London,  and 
many  youths  I  knew  among  them. 

"  Then  you  don't  think  there  will  be  any 
general  recruiting?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh  dear,  no.  This  isn't  like  the  Boer 
War,  when  we  fought  alone.  We  have 
France  and  Russia  with  us.  And  besides, 
remember  the  British  Expeditionary  Force 

41 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

will  be  the  very  pick  of  the  army,  and  they'll 
do  their  job  all  right." 

He  smiled  proudly,  and  because  he  was 
old  and  experienced  I  believed  him. 

Why  trouble  about  the  future  ?  The  sun 
shone  bright,  the  sea  flowed  in  rippling 
azure,  the  Irish  coast  was  looming  up,  and 
to  the  starboard  lay  two  long  grey  British 
cruisers,  flying  the  flag  that  had  never 
known  defeat.  England,  the  forsaken  but 
unforgotten  land  of  a  thousand  happy 
memories  ;  England,  the  beloved  and  long- 
desired,  lay  just  beyond  that  faint  pale  mist 
and  by  nightfall  we  should  reach  it.  Even 
now,  it  might  be,  she  had  struck  her  victor- 
ious blow  on  the  land,  as  she  had  already 
done  upon  the  sea. 

And  there  was  no  one  to  tell  me  that 
my  friendly  Major-General's  gay  prognos- 
tications had  as  little  base  in  fact  as  that 
lying  telegram  in  the  hotel  lobby  at 
Quebec. 


42 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF  WAR 

III 

I  LOOK  back  at  that  England  of  August 
1914  with  suq)rise  and  wonder.  In  a 
single  moment  all  her  destinies  had  been 
staked  upon  the  cast  of  war,  but  she  did  not 
seem  to  be  aware  of  it.  Her  life  was  moving 
stolidly  in  the  deep  ruts  made  by  long  years 
of  peace.  Liverpool  glittered  with  a  thou- 
sand lights  through  the  veils  of  murk, 
crowded  ferry-boats  were  running  to  and 
fro,  the  great  lighted  train  waited  to  convey 
the  ocean  traveller  to  London.  I  was  con- 
scious of  no  tension  in  the  air.  The  papers 
gave  their  front  pages  to  the  war,  but  the 
great  space  allotted  to  sports  was  not 
abridged.  Men  went  about  their  ordinary 
business  in  the  ordinary  way,  cheerful, 
imperturbable,  good-humoured,  apparently 
unconscious  of  peril,  or  proudly  ignoring  it. 
I  gathered  the  impression  that  for  the  aver- 
age man  the  war  was  merely  an  incident. 
Some  one  had  started  the  watchword, 

43 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

"  Business  as  usual."  There  must  have 
been  something  in  it  that  appealed  to 
British  doggedness,  for  it  was  generally 
adopted.  On  most  men's  lips  it  implied 
a  complete  half-humorous  contempt  of 
Germany.  In  one  Cathedral  city  which  I 
visited  a  patriotic  baker  had  improved  upon 
the  motto.  He  was  executing  some  repairs 
in  his  shop,  and  hung  out  a  board  on  which 
the  caption  was  displayed,  "  Business  as 
usual,  during  the  extension  of  the  British 
Empire."  I  have  no  doubt  he  was  a  very 
stupid  man,  who  knew  as  little  of  the  British 
Empire  as  he  did  of  Germany,  but  I  could 
not  deny  him  the  virtue  of  chuckle-headed 
courage.  He  was  certainly  representative 
and  typical,  for  I  met  the  same  attitude 
among  all  sorts  of  men.  They  seemed  to 
imagine  that  it  would  be  a  kind  of  cowardice 
to  confess  that  things  were  serious,  and 
an  insult  to  suppose  that  they  cared.  A 
studied  indifference  to  the  war  was  their 
synonym  for  fortitude. 

44 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF   WAR 

The  English  attitude  astonished  me  ;  as 
I  look  back  I  am  not  less  astonished  at  my 
own.  I  was  intelligent  enough  to  know  the 
war  was  serious,  but  I  had  no  understanding 
of  its  real  dimensions.  I  supposed  it  a  war 
of  armies,  not  of  armed  nations,  as  it  proved 
to  be.  I  was  told  on  all  sides  that  the 
English  army  had  been  trained  to  the 
highest  point  of  efficiency,  and  of  its  valour 
there  was  no  question.  The  same  was  true 
of  the  Navy.  There  was  the  dramatic 
story  of  how  the  vast  fleet  of  England, 
assembled  for  the  innocent  purpose  of  an 
annual  review,  had  melted  away  in  a  night, 
secretly  warned  of  danger  and  cleverly 
directed  to  encounter  it.  There  was  the 
equally  dramatic  story  of  how  in  the  dusk  of 
a  summer  evening  a  great  army  had  crossed 
the  Channel  unobserved,  and  was  in  the 
battle-line  before  the  enemy  knew  that  it 
had  left  England.  These  things  encouraged 
optimism.  They  gave  proof  of  the  skill  and 
vigilance  of  English   statesmen.     Perhaps 

45 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

the  old  Major-General  was  right  when  he 
said  that  the  war  would  be  brief.  Why 
worry  about  it  ?  We  had  come  to  England 
for  a  definite  purpose  :  we  were  exiles 
returned,  eager  to  renew  acquaintance  with 
old  scenes  and  old  friends ;  and  there  ap- 
peared to  be  no  reason  why  we  should  not 
do  so.  If  the  shopkeeper's  motto  was 
business  as  usual,  it  was  quite  legitimate 
that  the  traveller's  should  be  pleasure  as 
usual. 

We  hired  a  motor-car,  and  for  sixteen 
days  toured  England.  We  visited  places 
dear  and  sacred  to  us  by  association,  a 
house  my  father  had  inhabited  in  a  remote 
Cornish  town,  the  grave  of  a  sister  I  had 
dearly  loved  in  an  old  parish  churchyard  of 
the  Midlands.  We  slept  in  ancient  inns, 
with  Tudor  ceilings  and  Jacobean  furniture 
that  had  known  the  stately  presences  of 
Wolsey,  Milton,  Cromwell ;  and  long  before 
their  days  the  feet  of  Chaucer's  pilgrims, 
and  the  song  of  steel-clad  Crusaders.     We 

46 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF  WAR 

stopped  in  quaint  villages  hidden  in  green 
nooks  above  opal  seas,  Tintagel,  Boscastle 
and  Clovelly.  The  immemorial  peace  of 
these  delightful  places  was  undisturbed  by 
the  loud  clamour  of  war.  Life  pursued  its 
ancient  courses,  as  it  had  done  for  centuries. 
The  fishing-boats  came  and  went  upon  the 
sea,  the  wheat  was  being  stacked  in  the 
fields,  and  in  the  evening  light  the  old 
labourer  bent  above  his  little  garden  or 
smoked  his  pipe  in  the  rose-covered  doorway 
of  his  cottage.  If  these  simple  folk  talked 
at  all  of  the  war,  it  was  usually  to  inform 
us  that  a  vast  army  of  Russians  had  passed 
through  England  secretly,  and  had  joined 
our  forces  at  the  Front.  The  same  legend 
met  us  in  countries  so  far  apart  as  Devon 
and  Derbyshire,  Gloucester  and  Suffolk. 
Eye-witnesses  had  seen  them,  shopkeepers 
had  taken  their  money ;  there  was  appar- 
ently no  railroad  over  which  they  had  not 
travelled  and  no  dark  wood  where  they  had 
not  been  heard  conversing.     It  was  like  the 

47 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

famous  telegram  at  Quebec  :   another  false- 
hood born  of  hope  and  imagination. 

Conceive  me,  then,  touring  England  with 
my  family  during  those  blazing  August  days, 
when  the  fortunes  of  England  hung  upon 
the  valour  and  endurance  of  ninety  thousand 
men  confronted  by  a  host  five  times  as 
numerous  and  infinitely  better  armed.  I 
ask  myself  how  I  could  have  done  it,  and 
the  only  reply  I  can  find  is  that  my  action 
was  the  natural  result  of  the  ideas  which  I 
had  imbibed.  I  was  not  more  selfisb  than 
another  man,  I  was  not  unpatriotic,  and 
what  I  did  was  not  due  to  levity  of  spirit. 
It  was  due  in  part  to  ignorance  of  world 
conditions,  in  part  to  a  habit  of  mind. 
Thoughts,  emotions,  sentiments,  the  poetry 
of  legend  and  romance,  the  niceties  of 
literature,  the  idealisms  which  are  rooted  in 
aloofness  from  real  life,  and  express  them- 
selves in  a  temper  of  foolish  superiority — 
these  made  the  warp  and  woof  of  my  mental 
life.     As  for  war,  as  I  have  already  said,  it 

48 


THE   FIRST  VISION  OF  WAR 

lay  quite  outside  my  thinking.      Granted 

that  wars  may  be  necessary,  it  was  the 

business  of  states  to  pay  men  to  fight  for 

them,   and   my   business   to   provide   the 

money.   Between  the  civilian  and  the  soldier 

there  was  no  common  bond  :  they  inhabited 

different  stratas.     I  assumed  that  the  state 

knew  its  business,  and  would  see  to  it  that  I 

was  duly  protected  in  my  personal  pursuit 

of  life,  liberty  and  happiness.     Therefore 

when  I  had  discharged  my  financial  duty  to 

the  state  I  was  perfectly  justified  in  going 

about    the    pursuit    of    my    own    private 

interests.     Like  that  "  brooding  East,"  the 

cradle  of  all  mysticisms,  of  which  Matthew 

Arnold  speaks,  I  was  disposed  to 

Let  the  legions  thunder  past 
And  plunge  in  thought  again. 

It  was  not  a  noble  habit  of  mind,  not  even 
a  creditable,  and  I  do  not  defend  it.  I 
suspect,  however,  that  it  is  not  an  uncom- 
mon condition  of  mind  among  men  who 
have  lived  tranquil  lives  of  cultured  self- 

49 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 


development,  and  lived  them  for  a  long 
time.  Such  lives,  without  being  selfish, 
undoubtedly  become  self-centred,  and  that 
which  lies  outside  their  own  experience  does 
not  exist  for  them. 

But,  if  this  was  my  attitude,  there  were 
many  signs  that  it  was  not  the  attitude  of 
my  sons,  nor  was  it  my  attitude  for  long. 
As  we  drew  nearer  London  the  signs  of  war 
became  more  open.  We  passed  camps 
where  Territorial  troops  were  being  drilled, 
long  lines  of  houses  marked  with  numbers 
in  chalk  for  the  billeting  of  troops,  army 
wagons,  guns,  horses,  and  supplies.  And 
the  news  too — it  was  like  a  black  cloud 
rolling  out  to  meet  us. 

It  was  poisonous  with  lies,  reports  called 
"  official  "  which  proved  baseless,  but  amid 
the  lies  only  too  much  truth  of  a  disastrous 
kind.  For  the  first  time  I  saw  alarm  upon 
the  faces  of  the  people.  And  I  saw  in  the 
eyes  of  my  sons  a  question,  which  I  knew 
must  presently  shape  itself  into  words. 

50 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF   WAR 


The  long  grey  streets,  in  a  hot  blur  of 
August  dust,  opened  out  before  us.  We 
passed  a  vast  hospital,  at  whose  windows 
we  could  see  wounded  soldiers.  The  news- 
boys, shrill-voiced,  were  calling  above  the 
dull  roar  of  the  streets,  "British  Defeat, 
Great  Losses."  A  church-bell  rang  in  a 
cracked  monotone.  Out  of  the  church-door 
a  woman  dressed  in  shabby  black  was 
coming.  At  the  end  of  the  long  grey  vista 
rose  something  that  appeared  buoyant  and 
strong,  a  Dome  and  a  Cross.  It  was  St. 
Paul's,  shining  in  the  setting  sun,  its  dome 
like  the  polished  breast  of  a  great  bird,  and 
its  Cross  a  crest  of  flame. 


IV 

Three  pictures  live  in  my  memory. 

The  first  is  of  men  drilling  on  every  open 
space  in  London,  and  of  troops  marching 
through  the  streets.  Kitchener's  first  pro- 
clamation had  appeared  calling  for  half  a 

E  51 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

million  men,  and  with  it  his  prophetic  state- 
ment that  the  term  of  the  war  would  not 
be  less  than  three  years.  I  read  it  with 
amazement.  The  actual  armed  forces  of 
the  Empire,  including  Territorial  troops, 
already  numbered  a  million.  Britain  had 
won  Waterloo  with  less  than  eighty  thous- 
and troops,  half  of  whom  were  not  English- 
born.  Napoleon's  vastest  army  was  less 
than  half  a  million.  What  kind  of  war  was 
this,  for  whose  demands  a  milhon  troops 
were  insufficient  ? 

Yet  Kitchener's  statement  was  received 
with  grave  assent.  There  were  those  who 
ridiculed  his  ideas  about  the  length  of  the 
war,  but  no  one  questioned  the  need  for 
immediate  recruiting,  and  on  a  vast  scale. 
The  men  came  forward  in  thousands.  They 
waited  in  long  lines  from  earliest  dawn  till 
night  at  the  doors  of  the  recruiting  depots. 
They  were  drawn  from  every  class.  Men 
of  education,  familiar  with  all  the  amenities 
of  good  social  station,  stood  shoulder  to 

52 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF   WAR 

shoulder  with  carpenters,  bricklayers,  ostlers, 
day-labourers,  each  alike  eager  to  be  chosen 
for  the  peril  of  a  great  game  in  which  his 
life  was  the  pawn.  The  parks  echoed  to 
the  sharp  commandsof  military  instructions, 
and  the  tramp  of  men  learning  the  first 
elements  of  drill.  I  saw  these  men,  with 
mixed  feelings  of  pity  and  admiration. 
They  were  in  their  civilian  clothes  ;  they 
wore  straw  hats  and  bowler  hats,  brown 
boots  and  white  tennis  shoes  ;  many  were 
narrow-shouldered  from  long  stooping  over 
desks,  and  few  presented  a  robust  appear- 
ance ;  yet  their  eagerness  to  learn  was 
evident,  and  their  interest  in  their  job 
enthusiastic.  Groups  of  women,  no  doubt 
relations,  watched  them,  some  with  pride, 
some  with  sad-eyed  apprehension.  And 
one  afternoon,  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  I  saw 
the  first  completed  product  of  this  intensive 
training.  The  Artists'  Corps  came  swinging 
down  the  Avenue,  many  of  them  men  con- 
nected with  the  arts — ^painters,  sculptors, 

53 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 


designers,  musicians,  architects — ^men  indi- 
vidually and  collectively  much  above  the 
average,  and  as  they  marched  they  sang 
"  Tipperary."  It  was  the  first  time  I  had 
heard  that  lilting  air.  It  has  often  been 
criticized  for  its  triviality,  and  some  persons, 
I  believe,  have  compared  it  unfavourably 
with  the  stern  quality  of  Teuton  army  songs. 
But  as  I  heard  it  for  the  first  time  that  day, 
it  seemed  to  me  to  express  all  the  pathos  of 
war,  all  the  heroism  and  self-sacrifice: 

So  good-bye,  Piccadilly, 
Farewell  Leicester  Square. 
It's  a  long,  long  way  to  Tipperary, 
But  my  heart's  right  there. 

For  the  first  time  I  had  a  sense  of  the  hero- 
ism and  gay  courage  which  war  invokes  in 
ordinary  men. 

The  next  day  I  went  into  a  bank  in 
the  Strand.  A  very  tall  man,  with  a 
strong  face,  was  standing  at  the  counter 
talking  to  the  clerk.  He  was  dressed  in 
dark  clothes,   and  wore  a  black  tie.     He 

54 


THE   FIRST   VISION  OF   WAR 

finished  his  business,  and  walked  to  the  door 
where  he  stood  in  a  bemused  fashion  gazing 
out  upon  the  thronged  street.  Presently 
he  came  back  to  the  counter,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice  to  the  clerk : 

"  Did  I  tell  you  he  was  dead  ?  " 

"Your  son?"  exclaimed  the  clerk. 

"  Yes.  He's  dead.  I've  just  got  the 
news.  He  was  killed  in  action.  I  thought 
you  would  like  to  know." 

He  went  again  to  the  door,  and  stood 
there,  with  his  sombre,  heavy  eyes  gazing 
out  on  the  sunlit  street. 

I  had  drawn  my  cheque  and  was  coming 
away.  He  was  still  standing  at  the  door, 
as  if  he  could  not  muster  up  resolution  to 
mix  with  the  busy  folk  of  the  street,  who 
all  seemed  so  complacent  and  so  satisfied. 

As  I  approached  him  he  stepped  forward 
and  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm. 

"  Did  I  tell  you  that  my  son  was  dead  ?'* 
he  said  in  a  dull  mechanical  voice,  as  though 
he   were   repeating    a   lesson.      "  He  was 

55 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

killed  in  action.  I've  just  got  the  news. 
I  thought  you  would  like  to  know."  I 
knew  then  that  he  was  crazed  with  grief. 
He  lifted  his  hat,  and  said,  "  Forgive  me 
for  troubling  you." 

He  turned  back  to  the  counter,  where 
he  stooped  down  to  whisper  to  the  clerk, 
uttering  no  doubt  the  same  words,  which 
were  all  his  stricken  mind  could  frame. 

I  left  him  there.  I  had  received  a  second 
impression  of  war,  and  a  great  terror  fell 
upon  me.  If  such  a  thing  should  ever 
happen  to  me,  what  should  I  do  ? 

A  week  later  I  saw  just  the  bare  fringe 
of  war  in  its  collective  aspect.  We  had 
crossed  to  Holland  to  visit  my  newly-mar- 
ried daughter  who  was  living  at  The  Hague. 
Gun  -  boats  accompanied  the  steamer, 
from  which  instructions  were  mega- 
phoned as  to  the  position  of  mines.  I 
returned  from  Holland  on  a  boat  packed 
with  fugitives  from  Belgium.  None  of 
them  possessed  much  beyond  the  clothes 

56 


THE  FIRST  VISION  OF  WAR 

they  wore — a  few  tiny  bundles  at  the  most. 
From  one  of  the  bundles  a  doll's  legs  pro- 
truded. A  dazed  child  sat  beside  it,  fondling 
the  wax  feet  of  the  doll.  There  were  old 
men  and  women  who  sat  perfectly  still, 
never  moving  from  one  position,  as  if  they 
had  lost  the  power  of  action.  There  were 
young  girls  in  whose  eyes  a  secret  horror 
lurked.  There  were  white-haired  priests, 
who  huddled  together  shocked  and  silent, 
rarely  lifting  their  eyes  through  the  entire 
voyage.  There  was  a  middle-aged  man, 
who  looked  like  a  prosperous  merchant, 
with  a  bloody  rag  wound  round  his  fore- 
head. None  of  these  poor  people  spoke 
among  themselves.  So  vast  a  distrust  of 
human  nature  had  possessed  them  that  they 
distrusted  one  another.  Or  perhaps  speech 
was  dead  in  them  ;  what  they  had  seen  and 
suffered  lay  beyond  speech. 

I  saw  once  a  dying  hare  that  had  been 
run  down  by  dogs,  and  I  never  forgot  the 
human  look  of  appeal  and  accusation  in  the 

57 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

wide  brown  eyes  of  this  tiny  victim  of  what 
men  call  sport.  There  was  the  same  look 
in  the  eyes  of  these  people.  The  dogs  of 
War  had  chased  them  from  their  homes,  run 
them  down,  torn  them  with  cruel  fangs  ; 
and  in  their  anguished  eyes  was  the  un- 
answerable question  why  these  things  had 
happened  to  them,  and  why  the  good  God 
had  let  them  happen. 

In  the  gallery  of  my  mind,  as  I  write, 
these  three  pictures  hang  side  by  side  : 
marching  men,  singing  "  Tipperary ;  "  a 
crazed  father  telling  strangers  that  his  son 
is  dead  ;  a  dismal  crowd  of  fugitives,  with 
a  dying  hare's  look  of  terror  and  accusation 
in  their  eyes. 

They  compose  my  first  vision  of  War. 
They  epitomize  its  gay  courage,  its  bitter 
tragedy,  and  its  unspeakable  cruelty  and 
injustice. 


58 


DE  PROFUNDIS 

So  long  around  our  heart  we  drew 

The  flaming  line  of  hope  that  kept 

Despair  at  bay,  and  held  it  true 

Thai  Christ  watched  while  the  great  world  slept. 

And  now  our  creed  breaks  like  a  star. 

And  falls  in  fire,  and  ends  in  night  ; 
The  heaven  we  sought  is  all  too  far, 

Our  hearts  are  tired,  we  have  no  light. 

We  drew  the  sword,  we  struck  at  wrong. 
We  fought  to  mould  a  better  world  ; 
Now  all  we  held  as  right  so  long 
Lies  at  our  feet  in  ruin  hurled. 
We  learn  the  bitter  speech  of  scorn, 

"  Their  wrong  was  right,  our  right  was  wrong  " 
We  tear  the  flag  in  conquest  borne. 

And  bow  our  heads  beneath  the  strong. 

Yet  not  so  ;  if  a  splendid  dream 
We  served,  we  will  not  perish  thus. 
Some  Easter-glory  yet  shall  gleam 
Beyond  "  God  has  forsaken  us  !  " 
Gird  on  the  sword,  the  flag  raise  high  ! 

Once  more  against  the  spears  of  hell 
We  hurl  ourselves,  and  if  we  die 

We  fall  as  all  God's  worthiest  fell ! 


59 


THE  GROWING  FEAR 


Those  who  say  that  fear  lies  at  the  root  of 
all  that  is  base  in  human  life  are  undoubted- 
ly right.  The  thief  fears  poverty,  and  there- 
fore steals.  The  business  man  fears  defeat, 
and  therefore  stoops  to  dishonour.  The 
thinker  fears  the  ostracism  which  is  the 
punishment  of  originality,  and  therefore 
hides  his  real  convictions.  We  all  fear  pain, 
loss,  and  suffering,  and  therefore  are  willing 
to  do  almost  everything  to  evade  them. 
Most  people  fear  Death,  because  they  con- 
ceive it  to  mean  the  ultimate  disaster. 

I  returned  from  London  in  1914  with 
Fear  for  my  companion.  It  was  a  sort  of 
subtle  ghost  which  manifested  itself  capri- 

61 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

ciously,  disappearing  for  long  intervals, 
reappearing  unexpectedly,  but,  as  I  knew, 
never  very  far  away.  It  leapt  out  at  me 
from  the  brightest  sunlight ;  it  assailed  my 
sleep,  and  visited  me  in  dreams. 

One  dream  I  remember  because  it  was 
recurrent.  I  was  travelling  over  a  wide 
moor  in  England,  with  my  son  beside  me 
in  the  motor-car.  Grey  rocks  lay  in  heaps 
among  the  purple  heather,  and  the  setting 
sun  was  poised  upon  a  distant  hill  like  a 
great  cauldron,  over  whose  lips  red  lava 
poured.  We  were  talking  eagerly  of  books, 
scenery  and  the  legendary  history  of  the 
moor,  when  all  at  once  I  discovered  that  he 
was  wearing  khaki.  The  sun  sank  lower 
and  a  change  passed  across  the  moor.  What 
I  had  thought  heaps  of  rocks  were  human 
bodies  huddled  in  grotesque  attitudes.  The 
red  Ught  flowed  over  them,  bathing  them 
in  blood.  My  son  pointed  to  them,  and 
said  something  to  me  which  I  could 
not  understand.     The  motor  stopped.     He 

62 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 


stepped  out  of  it,  regarded  me  wistfully  for 
a  moment,  then  turned  his  back,  strode  out 
upon  the  moor,  and  walked  toward  the 
huddled  bodies.  I  called  after  him,  using 
words  of  endearment,  of  protest,  and  finally 
of  anger.  He  waved  his  hand  to  me, 
became  a  tiny  speck  against  the  red  sun,  and 
disappeared.  Darkness  fell  suddenly  upon 
the  moor,  thick  and  noiseless  as  a  black 
velvet  curtain.  A  peewit  cried  in  the 
distance,  a  mountain  brook  gurgled  with  a 
sound  like  sobbing,  a  cold  wind  began  to 
thresh  among  the  heather.  A  horror  of 
great  loss  fell  upon  me,  and  I  awoke  with  an 
extraordinary  sense  of  desolation. 

This  dream  was,  as  all  dreams  are,  a 
dramatization  of  an  habitual  thought.  The 
spectacle  of  those  multitudes  of  youths 
drilling  on  every  village  green  of  England 
was  not  one  to  be  forgotten.  It  had  laid 
hold  of  my  imagination,  and  I  knew  that  it 
must  have  been  more  affecting  to  my  son 
than  to  myself.     For  me  it  was  a  spectacle, 

63 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 


but  for  him  it  was  a  challenge.     I  saw  the 
pathos  of  heroism ;   he  felt  its  call. 

He  did  not  tell  me  this,  but  our  relation 
had  been  so  intimate,  our  minds  had  moved 
to  a  common  rhythm  through  so  many 
years,  that  I  knew  his  thoughts,  and  he 
knew  that  I  knew  them.  Our  relation  had 
never  been  the  accepted  conventional  rela- 
tion of  father  and  son,  which  implies  supe- 
rior experience  on  one  side  and  conscious 
immaturity  upon  the  other.  I  remember 
thinking  with  some  bitterness  on  the  day 
when  he  left  home  to  go  to  Oxford,  that 
in  all  probability  his  life  would  now  move 
on  a  plane  different  from  mine.  Hence- 
forth he  would  have  his  own  aims  and  pur- 
suits, and  they  would  put  a  widening  gulf 
between  us.  It  was  part  of  the  inevitable 
irony  of  parentage,  which  serves  its  turn, 
launches  a  new  life  upon  the  world,  and  is 
forgotten.  Youth  must  be  served  ;  I  must 
decrease  and  he  would  increase.  So  it  had 
always  been,  so  it  would  always  be,  and 

64 


THE   GROWING   FEAR 


the  final  act  of  fatherhood  was  abdication, 
which  I  trusted  I  might  be  able  to  achieve 
at  least  with  grace,  at  all  events  without 
protest  which  is  ineffectual,  and  without 
envy  which  is  absurd. 

To  my  joy  and  surprise  this  sadly  antici- 
pated hour  of  abdication  never  came.  My 
son  outshone  me  in  a  thousand  ways,  but 
one  faculty  I  possessed  which  held  him  to 
me — the  faculty  of  youth.  I  do  not  know 
whether  sober  people  of  conventional  habits 
will  count  this  quality  in  me  a  virtue  or  a 
fault,  but  I  can  testify  that  it  has  earned  for 
me  great  dividends  of  happiness.  I  was 
not  cast  for  the  part  of  the  "  heavy  father  " 
in  the  drama  of  life.  I  could  not  have 
played  it  if  I  had  tried.  I  have  always  been 
treated  by  my  sons  with  a  kind  of  genial 
irreverence  which  sprang  from  an  affection- 
ate acknowledgment  that  I  was  less  their 
father  than  their  comrade.  I  have  shared 
their  pleasures  and,  upon  occasion,  have 
been  as  ready  for  some  gay  adventure  as 

65 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 


they.  Thus  there  has  always  been  between 
us  an  absolute  confidence,  a  complete  com- 
munion, based  upon  equality  of  thought  and 
similarity  of  temper. 

We  have  not  only  shared  pleasures,  but 
exile.  Coming  to  America  with  no  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  country,  flung  by  chance 
into  a  small  town  where  there  was  little  or 
no  social  life  to  distract  us,  we  were  all 
forced  very  close  together  by  the  loneliness 
of  our  situation.  We  re-discovered  one 
another.  We  leaned  much  upon  one  an- 
other, both  giving  and  receiving  strength ! 
We  attained  a  new  valuation  of  the  simple 
virtues  of  fidelity,  constancy,  and  family 
loyalty.  In  these  years  nothing  was  done 
save  in  common  council.  Any  plan  I  had, 
any  purpose  I  designed,  since  it  affected 
each  member  of  my  family,  was  fully 
debated  with  them.  The  important  ques- 
tion of  finance,  which  most  parents  conceal 
in  provoking  reticence,  was  considered  their 
business  as  much  as  mine,  for  were  we  not 

66 


THE   GROWING  FEAR 


all  partners  in  a  common  venture  ?  My  chil- 
dren knew  the  condition  of  my  bank  account 
to  its  last  penny.  And,  since  my  eldest  son, 
of  whom  I  am  writing  more  particularly, 
lived  at  home  with  us  through  all  those  early 
years  of  our  American  experiment,  the 
burden  of  the  household  lay  heavy  on  him. 
When  I  went  to  hospital  for  an  operation 
which  we  perfectly  knew  would  end  or  save 
my  life,  it  was  he  who  went  with  me,  and 
parted  from  me  at  the  door  with  a  silent 
hand-grip.  When  my  youngest  child  died, 
during  the  absence  from  home  of  both  my- 
self and  my  wife,  it  was  upon  him  that  the 
chief  responsibility  of  those  tragic  hours  was 
laid. 

There  was  beside  the  bond  forged  by 
isolation  and  dependence,  the  bond  of 
common  mutual  work.  All  he  wrote  I  read, 
all  I  wrote  he  read.  There  was  not  a  situ- 
ation in  his  novels  which  had  not  been 
discussed  between  us.  I  had  watched  the 
growth  of  his  powers  not  only  with  parental 

F  67 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER  _ 

pride  but  with  the  sympathy  of  a  brother 
artist.  I  knew  the  rarity  of  those  powers 
long  before  it  was  acknowledged  by  the 
critics.  Our  Uterary  ideals,  not  always 
identical,  were  compared,  discussed,  dis- 
sected in  endless  conversations,  as  we  took 
our  daily  walk  through  the  park  or  sat  round 
a  fire  of  logs  on  winter  evenings.  In  one 
literary  undertaking  we  had  been  actual 
partners.  I  mention  these  things  to  show 
that  the  bond  between  us  was  of  unusual 
intimacy.  I  valued  it  all  the  more  when 
I  remembered  my  own  childhood.  I  left 
home  when  I  was  a  little  over  eight  years 
old  and,  with  the  exception  of  an  interval 
of  two  years  between  leaving  school  and 
going  to  college,  I  never  lived  at  home  again. 
I  never  knew  my  father  with  the  intimacy  of 
a  daily  contact,  continued  through  unhur- 
ried years.  WTien  the  time  came  that  I  was 
able  to  spend  long  holidays  at  home,  my 
father  was  an  invalid,  and  the  brightness 
of  his  mind  was  dulled. 

68 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 


And  now  the  Fear  had  seized  on  me  that 
this  profound  intimacy  was  Uable  to  sudden 
rupture.  We  had  lived,  during  our  resi- 
dence in  America,  a  hfe  very  much  apart 
from  the  world,  and  we  had  been  content  to 
do  without  the  world  because  we  were  so 
contented  with  each  other.  World  events 
had  become  unimportant ;  they  had  re- 
ceded from  us  as  the  full  tide  recedes  from 
a  little  pool  among  the  rocks.  We  heard 
the  clamour  of  the  sea  as  something  far  off, 
insignificant,  diminished  and  disregarded. 
The  tide  was  now  rolling  back.  The  little 
rock-pool  of  our  still  life  was  agitated  with 
the  first  ripple  that  predicted  change.  Soon, 
very  soon,  the  great  sea  would  be  upon  us, 
and  there  was  no  Power,  lifting  a  magic 
rod,  to  say,  "  Thus  far  shalt  thou  icome, 
and  no  further." 

I  heard  the  noise  of  the  approaching  water 
and  I  was  afraid. 


69 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

II 

Christmas  had  come  again,  and  once  more 
we  were  together.  Some  premonition  that 
it  might  be  the  last  Christmas  we  should 
spend  together  for  a  long  time  haunted  each 
one  of  us.  For  that  reason  we  had  made  a 
great  effort  to  meet.  My  three  sons  tra- 
velled together  the  three  thousand  miles 
that  lay  between  the  ranch  and  Newark. 
We  were  the  same  group  that  had  found  life 
so  delightful  six  months  before  among  the 
hills  and  woods,  but  how  changed  had  our 
thoughts  become!  The  contrast  between 
those  days  of  July  splendour  and  these  grey 
December  skies  was  symbolic  of  the  altera- 
tion in  ourselves.  Happiness  no  longer  rose 
in  fine  excess  like  a  sparkling  fountain  ;  it 
flowed  soberly  between  dull  banks,  and 
there  was  the  murmur  of  the  ocean  in  the 
distance. 

There  were  long  talks  round  the  fire  as 
in  other  days,  talks  full  of  intimate  recol- 

70 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 


lection,  but  I  had  the  sense  of  unspoken 
thoughts  which  we  dared  not  utter,  and  yet 
felt  a  strong  compulsion  to  reveal.  We 
were  very  tender  with  each  other  in  those 
days.  Our  minds  moved  warily,  seeking 
but  shrinking  from  full  contact,  as  if  we 
were  aware  of  a  bruise  we  feared  to  touch. 
In  the  long  silence  I  found  my  son's  eyes 
fixed  on  me  questioningly.  And  often  I 
looked  at  them  in  the  same  way.  What 
was  going  on  in  their  minds  ?  Two  of 
them  had  looked  on  the  reality  of  war  in 
England,  and  Eric,  the  youngest,  was  aware 
that  several  of  his  old  Yale  friends  were 
either  going,  or  had  gone,  to  serve  with  the 
American  Ambulance  Corps.  For  Conings- 
by  I  knew  that  there  were  certain  peremp- 
tory undertakings  in  literature  which  could 
not  be  set  aside  in  haste.  He  was  bound,  as 
a  mere  matter  of  honour  and  conscience,  to 
complete  them.  He  ha<^  written  me  about 
them,  reporting  his  progress,  and  I  was  glad 
to  find  his  progress  had  been  slow.     I  hoped 

71 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

it  might  be  yet  slower,  for  each  day  that  he 
was  bound  to  his  task  was  a  day  snatched 
from  the  threatening  future. 

I  comforted  myself  with  similar  reflec- 
tions about  the  other  two  boys.  How 
could  Reginald  leave  the  ranch  which 
represented  the  invested  capital  and  toil  of 
so  many  years  ?  How  could  Eric  break  his 
law  indentures,  and  fail  to  go  on  with  those 
examinations  on  which  his  career  depended  ? 
In  each  case  I  found  not  only  the  obligation 
of  self-interest,  but  the  still  more  exigent 
obligations  of  the  pledged  word.  I  found 
myself  arguing  their  case  for  them,  but 
from  my  point  of  view  rather  than  theirs. 
And  I  knew  that  they  would  look  to  me  for 
counsel.  What  counsel  could  I  give  ?  When 
I  argued  their  case  before  the  bar  of  my 
own  intelligence  I  had  no  difficulty  in 
winning  a  verdict.  But  if  I  argued  the 
case  before  the  court  of  their  own  honour 
could  I  win  it  ?  As  a  last  resort,  I  thought 
that  I  could  use  one  argument  which  they 

72 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 


would  respect.  If  I  admitted  the  claim  of 
inevitable  duty,  I  could  not  admit  it  for  all 
three.  The  most  that  I  could  grant  was 
that  one  must  go.  But  no  sooner  had  I 
made  this  admission  than  my  mind  recoil- 
ed from  another  question — "  Which?  "  They 
were  equally  dear.  The  career  of  each  had 
been  costly.  I  had  lived  in  the  success  of 
each,  and  in  their  anticipated  future.  And, 
even  if  I  could  persuade  them  that  only 
one  must  go,  which  would  be  ready  to  retire 
in  favour  of  the  other  two  ? 

The  newspapers  came  each  morning  with 
their  stories  of  heroic  struggle  and  their 
toll  of  death.  We  read  them  furtively.  I 
would  enter  the  room  suddenly  and  find 
one  of  my  sons  absorbed  in  the  war  news  ; 
the  paper  was  instantly  thrust  aside,  with 
a  pathetic  assumption  of  indifference.  I 
myself  read  the  war  news  secretly.  I  found 
paragraphs  that  so  stirred  the  heart  that 
I  was  deeply  moved;  but  not  the  less  I 
hoped  that  my  sons  might  not  have  noticed 

73 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

them.  In  ordinary  circumstances  we  should 
have  discussed  them  fully.  We  should  have 
read  aloud  the  war-poems  that  filled  the 
papers,  many  of  them  so  excellent  in 
quality  and  so  pathetic  in  substance  that 
weTshould  have  been  delighted  with  their 
merit.  Now  I  dared  not  do  this,  and  I 
knew  why.  I  feared  the  touch  that  might 
precipitate  the  avalanche.  And  my  sons, 
equally  conscious  of  the  poised  peril,  feared 
it  too,  for  my  sake. 

We  aU  tried  to  make  believe  that  this 
was  an  ordinary  Christmas,  like  any  other. 
We  visited  theatres,  dined  at  restaurants, 
tried  to  keep  alive  the  old  spirit  of  gaiety  and 
Hght-heartedness  ;  but  there  was  no  spon- 
taneity in  our  mirth.  Fear  sat  beside  us 
in  the  theatre,  and  whispered  at  our  shoul- 
ders in  the  restaurants.  The  jests  of  the 
theatre  fell  flat,  the  gaiety  of  the  well- 
dressed  Crowds  in  the  restaurants  was  an 
offence.  I  remember  one  performance  on 
behalf  of  some  form  of  war  rehef ,  at  which  a 

74 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 


celebrated  actor  made  an  eloquent  appeal 
for  help.  We  sat  silent  and  unthrilled. 
It  seemed  such  a  poor  thing  to  be  sending 
dollars  when  other  nations  were  sending 
lives.  We  saw  behind  the  brilliant  scenery 
of  the  stage  those  pale  youths  drilling  in  the 
London  parks,  and  marching  with  "Tip- 
perary  "  on  their  lips  to  their  ultimate  fate. 
From  such  excursions  we  came  home  silent 
and  depressed.  Money  I  was  willing  enough 
to  give,  but  could  that  cancel  my  debt  ? 
Could  America  hope  in  the  long  run  to  pay 
her  debt  to  liberty  with  dollars  ?  How 
could  she,  and  how  could  I  buy  myself  out 
of  the  stem  conscription  of  inevitable  duty 
by  such  means  ?  And,  as  we  came  back 
in  the  train  at  midnight  the  very  wheels 
seemed  to  chant  in  dreadful  rhythm, 
"  Lives,    not    dollars." 

One  night  the  tension  ,broke  quite  sud- 
denly. 

The  hour  was  late,  and  we  sat  round  the 
embers    of    a    dying    fire.    Coningsby  had 

75 


THE   FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

been  writing  all  day,  and  I  asked  him  how 
his  book  was  going. 

"  I  can  see  the  end,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  When  I  have  finished  it  of  course  I  shall 
enlist." 

A  sharp  pain  shot  through  my  heart,  and 
was  followed  by  a  hot  wave  of  indignation. 

"  No,  no,  you  must  not  think  of  that," 
I  cried. 

His  mother  and  his  sister,  braver  than 
I,  said : 

"  He  knows  best  what  he  ought  to  do." 

'.'My  dear  father,"  he  said,  "you  know 
what  I  ought  to  do,  don't  you  ?  I'm  not 
acting  in  haste.  I've  thought  it  all  over. 
I  know  how  serious  a  step  it  is.  I  wouldn't 
take  it,  if  I  wasn't  forced  to.  I  must,  I 
simply  must  enlist." 

"  And  I,"  said  Reginald.  "  All  the  men 
are  going  in  Kootenay.  I  can't  lift  up  my 
head  if  I  don't." 

"  And  I,"  said  Eric.  "  I  don't  mind 
going   as    an    ambulance    driver,    if    you 

76 


« 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 


strongly  wish  it,  but  I  would  rather  enlist 
with  the  others." 

"  But  think  of  your  careers,"  I  pleaded. 
*'  You've  each  worked  so  long  and  so  hard, 
and  now,  just  when  you're  going  to  reap 
your  rewards " 

"  Think  of  our  careers,  if  we  don't  go," 
they  answered. 

"  Just  because  you've  been  so  proud  of  us, 
we  want  you  to  go  on  being  proud  of  us," 
said  Coningsby.  "  And  you  couldn't  be 
proud  of  us  if  we  were  slackers,  could 
you?" 

I  had  no  answer.  I  was  too  stunned  for 
argument. 

"  Both  Con  and  I  wanted  to  join  when  we 
were  in  England,"  said  Reginald.  "  But  do 
you  remember  what  you  said  ?  You  said 
it  would  break  your  heart,  and  so  we  didn't 
join." 

"  I  think  it  will  break  your  heart  if  we 
don't  join  now,"  said  Coningsby.  "  It 
won't  get  broken  all  at  once  ;  but  in  years 

77 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

to  come  you'll  be  ashamed  of  us,  and 
that's  what  will  break  your  heart.  My  dear 
father,  do  try  to  see  it  all  from  our  point  of 
view.  I  know  that  you  do  really  think  as 
we  think,  but  pain  won't  let  you  be  quite 
honest  with  yourself.  When  the  pain  is 
past  you'll  not  only  agree  witt^  us,  but  you'll 
be  proud  of  us." 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  I  said  brokenly.  "  At 
all  events  I  can't  think  like  that  now." 

"  You  will  some  day.  I  am  sure  of  it. 
We've  not  been  so  close  together  all  these 
years  without  my  discovering  that  you  can 
rise  to  hard  occasions  as  well  as  any  other 
man,  indeed  much  more  readily  than  most 
men." 

But  in  that  hour  all  the  resilience  of  my 
soul  seemed  broken.  The  occasion  crushed 
me  and  drew  forth  no  answering  courage. 
All  I  knew  was  that  the  Fear  that  had  so 
long  haunted  me  had  dropped  the  veil,  and 
now  gazed  into  my  shrinking  eyes  with  its 
own  cold  eyes  of  calculated  malice.    Those 

78 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 


eyes  were  awful  as  the  eyes  of  Death,  and  I 
was  afraid. 


Ill 

My  fear  tried  to  justify  itself  on  philo- 
sophic grounds. 

One  night  we  put  upon  the  victrola  an 
exquisite  violin  solo  of  Kreisler's.  The 
paper  had  informed  me  that  morning  that 
Kreisler  had  joined  the  Austrian  army,  and 
was  going  to  the  Front.  Instantly  my  mind 
conceived  a  picture  of  Kreisler  with  a  shat- 
tered right  hand,  trodden  down  in  the 
indiscriminate  rage  of  battle.  He  would 
return,  if  he  returned  at  all,  a  maimed  man, 
and  who  could  estimate  what  his  loss  would 
mean  to  the  music  of  the  world  ?  The 
papers  had  discussed  that  very  point,  and 
some  one  had  written  ^  poignant  letter, 
pleading  that  artists  and  musicians  should 
be  considered  sacrosanct  in  time  of  war.  .^^ 

My  mind  went  back  once  more  to  that 

79 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

Artists'  Corps  which  I  had  seen,  singing 
"  Tipperary "  with  such  Ught  hearts  as 
they  marched  down  Shaftesbury  Avenue. 
I  knew  that  many  of  them  must  be  men 
of  achievement  and  some  of  original  and 
conspicuous  genius.  They  carried  the  art  of 
the  future  with  them.  An  ordinary  man 
might  fall  in  battle,  and  the  world  be  no 
poorer  ;  but  when  a  man  of  genius  dies 
untimely,  the  world  is  robbed  of  a  great 
inheritance. 

I  told  myself  that  even  in  a  time  of  war 
some  respect  was  due  to  the  canons  of 
economy.  A  nation  might  squander  its  trea- 
sure and  replace  it,  but  it  could  not  replace 
squandered  genius.  The  world  could  better 
spare  a  regiment  of  Austrian  peasants  than 
one  Kreisler.  War  was  brutally  indifferent 
to  spiritual  and  intellectual  values.  In  the 
commonalty  of  a  soldier's  life  the  poet  was 
of  no  more  value  than  the  hodman.  What 
stupid  tragic  Vandalism  was  this,  that  men 
of  the  highest  gifts,  of  immense  value  to 

80 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 


the  world,  should  be  sacrificed  upon  a  job 
that  could  be  as  well  or  better  done  by  men 
whose  sole  efficiency  was  physical ! 

I  looked  upon  Coningsby,  and  remem- 
bered how  many  years  had  gone  to  his 
making,  to  the  discovery  and  development 
of  his  peculiar  gifts.  There  were  the  days 
of  childhood — even  then  he  had  begun  to 
write.  There  were  the  years  of  school ; 
how  well  I  remembered  leaving  him  one 
bitter  winter  day  at  the  iron  gates  of  a 
puritan  academy,  and  noticing  how  red  his 
hands  were  with  the  cold,  and  how  forlorn 
he  looked.  There  were  many  months, 
during  which  he  rode  his  bicycle  sixty  miles 
a  week  to  the  house  of  the  scholar  who 
tutored  him  for  Oxford.  There  were  the 
years  at  Oxford,  and  then  the  hidden  years 
during  which  he  wrought  in  doubt  and 
difficulty  to  learn  the  art  of  writing  with 
distinction  and  lucidity.  How  many  years 
in  all  ?  A  fifth  of  a  lifetime  in  all  proba- 
bility.  Would  it  not  be  the  most  monstrous 

8i 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

kind  of  waste  if  all  the  fine  efiiciency  gained 
through  those  laborious  years  were  sacri- 
ficed ?  Certainly  common  sense  demanded 
some  discrimination  between  the  man  who 
had  been  trained  for  a  difficult  and  rare 
task  and  the  man  whose  sole  possession 
was  his  physical  efficiency. 

And  then  there  was  that  other  thought 
already  made  so  obvious :  he  was  my  eldest 
son,  and  if  he  enlisted  it  was  certain  that  the 
two  younger  brothers  would  enlist.  They 
would  follow  his  lead  and  would  not  be  out- 
done in  sacrifice.  The  encroaching  wave 
would  not  be  satisfied  with  one  victim. 
The  stem  spirit  of  war,  hke  the  half- 
inspired  fanatic  of  Ibsen's  poem,  would 
demand  "All  or  Nothing." 

Again  and  again  I  rehearsed  these 
thoughts.  I  knew  that  they  were  rational. 
I  knew  that  I  had  a  case  which  any  reason- 
able jury  would  respect.  The  writer  who 
had  pleaded  the  exemption  of  musicians  and 
artists  had  stated  that  case  for  me  on  the 

82 


THE  GROWING  FEAR 


large  grounds  of  human  welfare,  seen  not 
in  a  passing  phase,  but  in  its  enduring 
claims. 

And  yet  the  moment  I  endorsed  it  I 
became  aware  of  its  weakness.  If  the  poet, 
the  artist,  the  musician  were  exempt,  why 
not  the  chemist,  the  engineer,  the  man  of 
science  ?  Where  could  we  stop  ?  Who, 
among  the  professional  classes  at  least, 
could  not  give  ample  proof  that  he  was  of 
more  real  value  to  the  community  in  the 
pursuit  of  his  calling  than  in  using  his 
bodily  strength  upon  a  battlefield  ?  Besides, 
there  was  the  fact  that  Kreisler  had  gone. 
He  knew  the  rarity  of  his  gift  better  than 
anyone,  yet  he  had  gone.  He  could  esti- 
mate its  value  with  the  finest  judgment, 
yet  some  powerful  impulse  had  led  him  to 
count  his  gift  as  of  small  account  weighed  in 
the  balance  with  a  duty  that  was  heroic 
and  imperative. 

There  was  also  another  plea  which  insis- 
ted  on   a  hearing.     In  this  plea  for  the 

G  83 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

exemption  of  men  of  intellect  was  there  not 
something  inherently  snobbish  ?  What  it 
really  came  to  was  that  common  men  should 
perform  all  the  heroism  of  the  world,  and 
uncommon  men  should  profit  by  it.  The 
labourer  and  the  artisan  should  die  that 
a  Kreisler  should  enjoy  security  for  the 
development  of  his  art.  And,  after  all,  was 
that  art  more  truly  necessary  to  the  world 
than  the  toil  which  raised  harvests,  built 
roads,  launched  ships,  and  riveted  the  bridge 
over  which  the  commerce  of  a  continent 
was  carried  ?  And,  if  it  came  to  a  measure- 
ment of  individual  loss,  was  not  the  loss  of 
a  breadwinner  from  a  humble  home  as  truly 
tragic  as  the  loss  of  a  violinist  from  a  con- 
certrhall,  even  though  he  played  a  fiddle  as 
no  other  man  could  play  it  ? 

So  I  argued  with  a  mind  divided.  No 
sooner  had  one  reason  triumphed  than 
another  contradicted  it.  My  thoughts  ran 
to  and  fro,  like  waters  washing  round  a 
shallow  bowl,  without  outlet,  without  defi- 

84 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 


nite  aim.  And  all  the  time,  reason  it  as  I 
would,  my  Fear  drew  nearer.  I  could  not 
exorcize  it,  nor  dared  I  say  with  Hamlet  to 
his  father's  ghost : 

I'll  cross  it  though  it  blast  me. 

I  could  only  wait  in  silence  the  approaching 
step,  as  one  in  a  dark  wood,  who  hears  the 
dry  twigs  crackle  under  the  stealthy  move- 
ment of  some  dreaded  foe. 

IV 

One  day  we  received  a  letter  informing  us 
that  a  man  whom  we  all  knew  well  had  been 
killed  in  action.  He  was  young,  bright, 
alert,  with  a  wife  and  two-year-old  son. 
He  had  gone  out  with  the  first  contingent  of 
the  Canadian  forces,  and  had  been  less  than 
three  months  in  Flanders  when  he  was 
killed.  A  silence  fell  upon  us  as  we  read  the 
letter.  After  breakfast  we  went  away  to  our 
various  duties,  but  all  day  long  the  spectre 
raised  by  that  letter  haunted  us. 

85 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 


War  in  the  abstract  may  be  philosophized 
upon,  but  this  was  war  in  the  concrete,  and 
it  struck  home  to  the  heart.  It  was  as 
though  the  commonplace, '  *  We  all  must  die, " 
had  been  replaced  by  the  poignant  message, 
"  You  must  die,  and  soon."  No  one  is 
concerned  by  the  general  threat  of  death 
which  hangs  above  the  entire  human  race, 
but  we  are  instantly  and  profoundly  affected 
by  the  death  of  a  person  we  have  loved. 
In  the  same  way  the  casualty  lists  of  a 
battle  leave  us  cold,  or  inspire  only  a  pity 
too  difhised  to  be  intense,  but  the  death  of 
a  single  friend  in  battle  shocks  us  with  a 
sense  of  outrage.  It  was  so  we  felt  when 
this  news  reached  us,  and  the  very  mode  in 
which  it  was  conveyed  was  significant.  It 
was  contained  in  a  postscript,  as  if  the 
writer  of  the  letter  attached  slight  impor- 
tance to  it.  To  him  it  must  have  appeared 
a  normal  occurrence,  and  I  found  myself 
reflecting  on  the  blunted  sensibility  which 
war  produces  in  the  spectator.     But  to  me 

86 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 

it  was  abnormal  to  the  point  of  horror. 
What  the  writer  of  the  letter  had  put  into 
a  callous  postscript,  I  saw  blazoned  on  the 
heavens  in  a  scroll  of  blood  and  fire. 

During  all  that  day  I  thought  over  the 
history  of  the  dead  man.  His  heroism  I 
could  not  deny,  but  very  soon  I  found 
myself  searching  for  reasons  which  might 
lessen  its  force  as  an  example.  I  told  my- 
self that  he  was  an  adventurer,  to  whom  peril 
of  any  kind  was  an  attraction.  He  had 
spent  his  life  in  taking  risks.  He  belonged 
to  that  large  class  of  wandering  Englishmen 
who  are  brave,  high-spirited,  enamoured  of 
danger,  but  who  follow  no  definite  plan  in 
life,  and  are  incapable  of  looking  very  far 
ahead.  He  had  not  even  looked  far  enough 
ahead  to  imagine  what  might  happen  to  his 
young  wife  and  child  if  he  should  die.  He 
was  symbolic  of  that  splendid  thoughtless- 
ness of  youth,  which  sets  little  value  upon 
life  ;  which  also,  it  must  be  confessed,  wins 
and  builds  up  empires.     And  I  added,  with 

87 


THE   FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

a  qualm  of  shame  at  the  meanness  of  the 
thought,  that  after  all  in  his  death  no  special 
loss  of  rare  gifts  \vas  involved,  which  would 
make  the  future  of  the  race  definitely 
poorer. 

These  reflections  were,  of  course,  the 
product  of  my  own  condition  of  mind.  I 
wanted,  above  all  things,  to  find  convincing 
reasons  why  my  sons  should  not  enlist, 
reasons  which  would  have  weight  with  them. 
And  I  knew  that  this  story  of  our  friend's 
death  would  affect  them  in  a  way  that  I  did 
not  desire.  What  would  appeal  to  them 
most  in  the  story  would  be  the  chivalry  of 
the  dead  man,  and  they  certainly  would  not 
be  deterred  by  its  tragedy.  To  me  also 
the  chivalry  appealed,  but  my  fear  was  too 
potent  for  me  to  appreciate  at  it  its  true 
worth.  Here  was  the  work  of  Fear  again  ; 
it  sought  to  diminish  the  motives  of  an 
heroic  act,  in  order  that  I  might  gain  a 
personal  end  very  dear  to  me.  And  yet  I 
had  always  been  very  sensitive  to  the  splen- 

88 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 


dour  of  heroism!  I  had  read  Plutarch's 
Lives  with  a  thrilled  heart.  I  had  written 
and  lectured  on  great  patriotic  histories. 
One  of  my  first  and  most  memorable 
journeys  as  a  boy  was  to  Portsmouth,  that 
I  might  stand  in  the  cockpit  of  the  Victory 
where  Nelson  died.  I  had  made  a  point 
when  travelling  in  England  of  visiting  battle- 
fields, the  graves  of  heroes,  and  ancient 
castles  before  whose  immemorial  walls  great 
deeds  were  done.  I  had  often  stood  in 
London  at  the  base  of  Nelson's  monument, 
and  had  seemed  to  hear  from  those  lips  of 
bronze  the  sacred  invocation,  "  England 
expects  this  day  that  every  man  will  do  his 
duty.''  In  America  I  had  visited  the 
battlefields  of  the  Civil  War  with  the  same 
feelings.  I  was  familiar  with  the  heroisms 
of  Gettysburg,  and  had  walked  among  the 
nameless  graves  of  Chickamauga.  All  this 
was  true,  and  yet,  when  a  true  hero  ap- 
peared before  me,  I  turned  my  head  away. 
I  was  unwilling  to  recognize  him  because 

89 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

to  praise  him  might  invite  disaster  for  my- 
self. To  such  a  mean  attitude  of  mind  had 
Fear  conducted  me. 

I  thmk  it  was  this  consciousness  of  the 
growth  of  mean  thoughts  within  me  that 
first  made  me  aware  of  how  Fear  was 
debasing  me.  I  found  no  extenuation  in 
the  plea,  which  was  true,  that  my  fear  was, 
after  all,  not  for  myself  but  for  others. 
Affection,  not  less  than  hatred,  can  play  the 
Judas  part  of  betrayal.  When  Christ  said 
that  a  man's  foes  might  be  those  of  his  own 
household,  was  He  not  thinking  of  affection 
as  a  foe  to  heroism  ?  Might  He  not  have 
been  thinking  of  just  such  a  case  as  mine, 
for  was  not  I  allowing  my  affection  for  my 
sons  to  become  the  foe  of  their  honour  ? 
And,  after  all,  was  I  thinking  only  of  my 
sons  ?  Was  it  really  true  that  my  fear  was 
altogether  for  another,  not  myself  ?  No  : 
I  saw  now  that  it  was  in  large  part  the  fear 
of  losing  my  own  happiness.  I  foresaw  the 
anguish  of  separation,  the  loneUness,  the 

90 


THE   GROWING   FEAR 

empty  days,  the  anxious  nights,  the  total 
disruption  of  those  schemes  of  hfe  on  which 
my  personal  happiness  was  based.  "  If  I 
lost  them  " — ay,  there  was  the  rub — I  was 
measuring  my  own  loss  and  was  afraid  to 
contemplate  it.  Love  for  them  and  love  for 
myself  were  interwoven  so  closely  that  I 
could  not  disintegrate  them,  but  I  knew  that 
the  one  was  as  authentic  as  the  other.  I  was 
afraid  because  I  loved ;  but  not  the  less  I 
was  afraid  of  the  loss  that  love  might  suffer. 
By  virtue  of  that  magic  which  interprets 
the  silence  of  thought  between  those  whose 
minds  are  exquisitely  intimate,  I  knew  that 
my  sons  comprehended  the  anguish  I  endur- 
ed. I  found  on  Coningsby's  table  one  night 
Tennyson's  poems,  opened  at  the  noble 
poem  called  "  Love  and  Duty,"  and  there 
was  a  broad  pencil  mark  beneath  the  lines  : 

If  this  indeed  were  all, 
Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony  heart. 
The  staring  eyes  glazed  o'er  with  sightless  days. 
The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro, 
The  set  grey  Ufe,  and  apathetic  end. 

91 


THE  FATHER   OF  A   SOLDIER 


I  think  he  meant  me  to  read  the  passage, 
and  I  knew  the  message  he  meant  it  to 
convey.  Robbed  of  the  heroisms  of  duty, 
what  was  hfe  worth  ?  If  duty  were  de- 
flected from  its  sacred  task  by  love,  what 
result  could  be  expected  ?  "  The  set  grey 
life,  and  apathetic  end  " — that  was  the 
penalty  of  a  life  that  sat  in  fear,  the  reward 
of  heroism  silenced  and  renounced. 

A  memory  came  to  me  of  a  family  I  had 
known  in  London,  whose  modes  of  life  we 
had  often  spoken  of  with  humorous  scorn. 
There  were  three  sons  and  a  daughter,  each 
of  whom  had  been  mollycoddled  from  birth. 
The  boys  were  educated  privately  because 
the  parents  had  concluded  that  public 
schools  were  deeply  injurious  to  youthful 
morals.  They  were  allowed  to  take  no  part 
in  manly  sports,  because  all  sports  were 
dangerous.  They  were  forbidden  to  take 
a  holiday  in  Switzerland,  because  sometimes 
men  lost  their  lives  there  on  treacherous 
glaciers.      I  think  the  night  air  of  London 

92 


THE  GROWING   FEAR 


was  also  considered  dangerous  to  their  lungs 
for  they  were  never  allowed  out  of  doors 
after  nine  o'clock.  The  girl  was  high- 
spirited,  broke  away  from  the  parental 
prison-house  and  joined  the  militant  suffra- 
gettes. The  boys  grew  up  as  might  have 
been  expected,  shy,  timid,  ineffective,  fear- 
ing wet  feet  more  than  a  soldier  fears 
wounds  and  death,  concerned  over  a  winter 
influenza  more  than  a  football  player  is  over 
a  broken  leg  in  a  victorious  game.  Here 
was  the  work  of  Fear  again,  the  total 
emasculation  of  manhood,  youth  robbed  of 
its  joy,  and  covered  with  absurdity.  Did 
I  wish  my  sons  to  become  even  as  these  ? 
The  idea  was  ridiculous,  and  yet  if  I  allowed 
my  fear  for  them  to  interfere  with  the 
natural  energy  of  their  desires,  and  if  their 
affection  for  me  induced  them  to  submit 
to  my  wishes,  was  I  not  guilty  of  the  emas- 
culation of  their  manhood  which  must 
ensue  ? 

Fear — I  saw  now  that  it  was  the  real  root 


93 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

of  all  evil.  It  attacks  the  roots  of  action, 
as  a  canker  worm  eats  its  way  through  the 
hidden  fibres  of  the  flower,  until  the  leaf 
withers  and  the  petal  falls  in  ruin.  It  was 
already  breeding  base  thoughts  in  me,  and 
would  breed  baser.  It  was  making  me 
insensitive  to  all  those  higher  visions  of  life 
and  duty  which  had  once  delighted  me.  I 
noticed  that  I  could  no  longer  read  Plut- 
arch's Lives  with  pleasure.  I  was  reluctant 
to  read  patriotic  poetry  or  histories  ;  and, 
if  I  did,  found  myself  out  of  sympathy  with 
them.  I  could  not  even  read  the  news- 
papers, with  their  daily  epic  of  great  deeds 
upon  the  battlefield,  without  a  certain 
impatience.  Fear  was  poisoning  me.  The 
slow  virus  was  infecting  every^  thought. 
Then  I  said,  I  must  krQ  Fear,  or  Fear  will 
kill  me. 

Through  aU  this  struggle  one  thing  grew 
upon  me  with  increasing  clearness — my 
sons  were  not  afraid.  I  knew  what  they 
would  do  as  surely  as  though   I  had  seen 

94 


THE  GROWING  FEAR 


them  girding  on  the  armour  of  a  knight,  and 
dedicating  their  swords  in  silent  midnight 
vigil  before  some  altar,  over  which  hung 
the  tortured  body  of  the  Crucified.  If  I 
was  to  remain  their  comrade,  must  not  I 
kneel  there  with  them  ?  Could  I  retain 
that  sensitive  and  all  but  perfect  commun- 
ity of  mind  which  had  so  long  united  us  if 
I  failed  them  now  ?  And  at  that  question 
my  Fear  suddenly  took  a  new  and  blessed 
shape,  as  though  a  dark  cloud  had  been 
penetrated  by  the  rosy  fires  of  dawn — I 
feared  lest  I  should  prove  unworthy  of  them. 
When  I  had  feared  because  my  happiness 
was  threatened,  I  had  feared  ignobly  ;  but 
this  was  noble  fear.  The  fear  lest  I  might 
prove  unworthy,  carried  with  it  the  resolu- 
tion to  be  worthy,  whatever  it  must  cost 
me. 

I  have  been  at  pains  to  trace  these  move- 
ments of  my  mind  because  I  know  that 
there  are  multitudes  around  me  who  are 
passing  through  the  same  experience.     The 

95 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

strange  horror  of  war  has  found  them  un- 
prepared, and,  in  adjusting  themselves  to 
it,  the  very  heart  is  wrenched  apart.  One 
great  lesson  I  have  learned  from  my  experi- 
ence— not  to  despise  the  man  who  is  afraid. 
If  the  truth  be  told,  we  are  all  afraid  when 
we  hear  the  footsteps  of  Tragedy  approach- 
ing us.  We  are  all  disposed  at  first  to  buy 
off  the  invading  foe  with  any  kind  of  bribe. 
In  the  conquest  of  fear  lies  our  only  chance 
of  escape  from  the  baser  elements  of  our 
nature  which  always  threaten  to  destroy  us. 
Our  sin  is  not  in  being  afraid,  but  in  yielding 
to  our  fear  ;  and  the  highest  courage  is  in 
being  afraid,  but  still  going  on  and  acting 
as  though  we  are  not  afraid. 


96 


WHEN  HEROES  DIE 

When  Heroes  die  no  tears  shall  fall  ; 

For  them  the  morning  stars  shall  sing, 
And  golden  planets  bear  their  pall 
With  hosts  of  heaven  following, 
And  close-ranked  angels,  wing  on  wing. 
When  Heroes  die. 

When  Heroes  die  it  is  not  meet 

To  make  them  mournful  obsequies, 
With  candles  at  the  head  and  feet. 
And  cere-cloths  drawn  around  their  eyes  ; 
A  Brightness  fills  the  earth  and  skies 
When  Heroes  die. 

When  Heroes  die  tall  trumpeters 

Before  heaven's  gate  proclaim  their  worth. 
In  marble  tombs  the  great  dust  stirs 
Of  soldiers  who  subdued  the  earth, 
And  God  Himself  makes  solemn  mirth 
When  Heroes  die. 

Wherefore  for  us,  when  Heroes  die. 

Shall  be  no  mournful  grave-ward  glance  : 
Our  souls,  with  theirs,  invade  the  sky 
And  to  immortal  strifes  advance  ; 
For  great  is  our  inheritance 
When  Heroes  die. 


97 


THE  SECOND    VISION  OF   WAR 


I  WAS  in  England  again. 

The  great  decision  had  been  made,  and 
my  son  was  a  soldier.  His  two  brothers 
had  joined  the  British  Navy.  In  a  single 
month  they  had  all  gone  from  us.  His 
brothers  were  waiting  their  appointments, 
and  he  was  returning  for  a  brief  leave  after 
four  months'  service  at  the  Front.  We 
were  to  meet  all  three  sons  in  London,  as  I 
have  narrated  elsewhere. 

One  vision  of  War  I  had  had,  and  it  had 
created  in  me  apprehension  and  resent- 
ment. That  mood  had  by  no  means  passed 
away,  although  it  was  greatly  modified. 
I  had  submitted  to  the  inevitable,  but  I 
was  not  reconciled  to  it.     I  had  submitted 

H  99 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

because  I  realized  that  the  honour  of  my 
sons  was  involved,  and  that  they  would  feel 
their  honour  stained  and  themselves  eter- 
nally disgraced  if  they  had  not  gone.  But 
to  accept  the  Cross  reluctantly  is  one  thing  ; 
to  accept  it  because  its  meaning  is  pro- 
foundly apprehended  is  quite  another. 

If  I  had  remained  in  America  I  do  not 
think  I  should  have  been  able  to  attain  this 
profounder  apprehension  of  the  war.  I 
am  speaking  now,  of  course,  of  the  days 
before  America  had  realized  her  true  rela- 
tion to  the  great  world  struggle.  A  large 
and  influential  body  of  people  still  preached 
peace,  and  were  apparently  prepared  to 
advocate  or  retain  peace  at  any  price.  The 
European  struggle  was  commonly  regarded 
as  lying  outside  the  immediate  interests 
of  America.  America  was  not  directly 
threatened,  or  believed  she  was  not. 
Judging  by  the  press,  and  by  the  war  books 
that  began  to  flood  the  market,  it  was  evi- 
dent that  the  horror  of  the  war  was  much 

too 


THE   SECOND    VISION   OF    WAR 


more  vitally  perceived  than  the  ideals  for 
which  the  Allies  fought.  The  suspicion 
still  lingered  that  the  war  was  like  all  other 
European  wars,  more  or  less  a  conflict  of 
dynasties,  of  national  ambitions,  of  com- 
mercial rivalries.  In  a  word,  the  spiritual 
aspects  of  the  struggle  were  not  realized  ; 
they  were  not  thoroughly  realized  even  by 
myself  ;  and  I  owe  it  to  that  visit  to  Eng- 
land that  at  last  my  attitude  of  reluctant 
acquiescence  in  an  inevitable  Cross  was 
changed  to  a  real  perception  of  its  meaning, 
and  of  reconciliation  to  it. 

The  England  of  1914  I  have  already 
described:  an  England  half-awake,  ignor- 
antly  confident,  imperturbably  cheerful, 
treating  the  war  as  an  incident  and  deriding 
its  menace  with  the  motto — "  Business  as 
usual."  How  different  was  the  England 
I  now  saw,  so  different  that  it  appeared 
almost  unrecognizable  !  Since  that  memo- 
rable August  of  1914,  blow  after  blow  had 
fallen.      The  splendid  army  which  grappled 

I0£ 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

with  overwhelming  forces  at  Mons  was  no 
more  ;  of  the  officers  and  men  who  had 
formed  that  heroic  Expeditionary  Force,  not 
a  tithe  was  left.  The  human  wreckage  of 
the  iron  storm  that  swept  the  fields  of 
Flanders  had  drifted  back  on  every  tide, 
and  the  streets  were  full  of  wounded  men. 
The  threat  of  invasion,  which  had  not  been' 
heard  since  Napoleon  had  assembled  an 
army  at  Boulogne  more  than  a  hundred 
years  before,  had  once  more  become  credible. 
The  entire  eastern  coast  was  scarred  with 
trenches,  and  on  the  inland  railway  stations 
there  were  posted  elaborate  instructions  of 
what  must  be  done  in  case  of  the  landing 
of  the  enemy.  Portions  of  the  Universities 
of  Oxford  and  Cambridge  were  hospitals. 
The  parks  of  the  nobility  were  camps,  and 
great  historic  houses,  which  had  known 
for  centuries  nothing  but  the  stately  and 
sustained  splendour  of  lordly  lives,  were 
convalescent  homes.  Blow  after  blow  had 
fallen  indeed,  but  it  would  seem  that  each 

102 


THE  SECOND   VISION   OF   WAR 

blow  had  but  beaten  the  nation  into  a  firmer 
consistency  of  courage  and  resistance,  as 
steel  is  tempered  in  the  fire.  It  was  an 
amazing  England,  an  incredible  England, 
and  I  could  not  but  recall  the  great  words  of 
Milton,  "  Me  thinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a 
noble  and  a  puissant  nation,  rousing  herself 
like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking 
her  invincible  locks  ;  methinks  I  see  her  as 
an  eagle  mewing  her  mighty  youth,  and 
kindling  her  unda^zled  eyes  at  the  full 
midday  beam,  purging  and  unsealing  her 
long-abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of 
heavenly  radiance." 

Through  a  land  swept  clean  of  youth  we 
travelled  from  Liverpool  to  London.  The 
porters  at  the  stations  were  boys  or  old  men, 
and  the  conductors  of  the  train  were  past 
middle-age.  When  I  commented  upon  this 
fact,  it  was  explained  to  me  that  from  this 
railway  alone  sixteen  thousand  men  had 
joined  the  army.  The  windows  of  the 
carriages  were  darkened,  the  light  veiled,  so 

103 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

that  we  travelled  as  in  one  long  tunnel  for 
two  hundred  miles.  London  was  dark  too. 
The  great  railway  station  was  like  a  dim 
cave,  in  which  spectral  figures  moved. 
The  lamps  in  the  streets  were  so  shaded  by 
a  heavy  coat  of  paint  that  they  cast  only  a 
little  pool  of  light  upon  the  black  road.  In 
one  direction  only  was  there  light — far 
across  the  sky,  flung  up  like  flaming  fingers 
which  groped  amid  the  murk,  the  great 
search-lights  played,  feeling  for  the  silver 
body  of  some  hidden  Zeppelin.  Under  this 
canopy  of  weaving  flames,  between  these 
dark  bulks  of  houses,  mad  taxi-drivers 
drove  at  full  speed,  as  if  in  purposed  de- 
fiance of  conditions  which  made  a  London 
street  more  perilous  than  the  shelving  road 
of  a  Colorado  canyon. 

London  conveyed  an  extraordinary  sense 
of  Empire.  I  had  seen  two  Jubilees  in 
London,  and  the  burial  of  the  Queen, 
whose  long  reign  had  thus  been  celebrated  ; 
each  was  a  great  occasion  for  the  home- 

104 


THE   SECOND    VISION   OF   WAR 

gathering  of  the  far-flung  British  race.  But 
in  the  main  these  were  spectacular  assem- 
blages of  the  picked  figures  of  the  race.  I 
saw  now  a  nobler  pageant — not  a  splendid 
group  of  princes,  soldiers  and  statesmen, 
surrounded  by  troops  in  all  the  bravery  of 
dazzling  uniforms,  riding  down  Whitehall 
to  the  solemn  portals  of  the  Abbey,  but,  as 
it  were,  the  race  itself  assembled.  The 
Australian,  the  Canadian,  the  New  Zea- 
lander,  men  from  Labrador  and  Honduras, 
from  Hudson's  Bay  and  India,  jostled 
one  another  in  Piccadilly  and  the  Strand. 
Every  theatre  and  restaurant  was  full  of 
men  in  uniform.  Strange  stories  were  told 
of  friends  and  brothers  who  had  not  met 
for  years  suddenly  coming  face  to  face  in  the 
London  streets.  The  population  of  Lon- 
don was  said  to  have  increased  by  half  a 
million.  It  had  become,  not  in  theory,  but 
in  visible  reality,  the  focus  of  an  Empire. 
The  wounded  and  the  maimed  were 
everywhere.      At  the  theatres  I  saw  boxes 

105 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

filled  with  blinded  soldiers,  in  the  res- 
taurants one-legged  men  cutting  up  the 
food  for  one-armed  men.  Every  public 
institution  conspicuously  displayed  its  Roll 
of  Honour,  the  long  list  of  those  who  had 
passed  through  its  doors  to  die  in  battle. 
On  one  such  roll  I  counted  three  hundred 
names  ;  on  another  the  list  was  too  long 
for  counting.  From  one  suburban  church 
one  hundred  and  seventy  men  had  gone, 
from  another  eight  hundred.  There  were 
no  young  men  in  the  shops.  Aged,  half- 
decrepit  shopwalkers,  long  ago  retired,  had 
returned  to  their  posts,  and  did  the  best 
they  could  to  fulfil  duties  beyond  their 
strength.  A  new  motto  was  on  every  lip, 
not  the  foolish  phrase  "Business  as  usual," 
but  that  every  one  should  "  do  his  bit." 
Every  man  was  obviously  doing  it,  and 
every  woman  too,  for  women  in  semi- 
uniform  were  everywhere  acting  as  por- 
ters, chauffeurs,  and  bus-conductors.  Great 
munition   works   had    arisen    everywhere. 

io6 


THE   SECOND    VISION   OF   WAR 

They  were  said  to  number  four  thousand, 
and  they  employed  more  than  a  million 
workers,  seven  hundred  thousand  of  whom 
were  women.  At  Gretna  Green,  a  solitary 
hamlet  on  the  Scotch  border,  where  two 
years  earlier  scarcely  a  dozen  houses  could 
be  counted,  a  city  of  twenty  thousand 
persons  had  sprung  up,  and  the  solitary 
moor  was  lit  far  and  wide  with  the  red  flame 
of  furnaces,  and  starred  with  electric  lights. 
The  multitude  of  women  thus  employed 
had  proved  themselves  brave,  capable  and 
trustworthy.  Their  tasks  were  hard,  but 
they  did  them  with  painstaking  thorough- 
ness, making  no  complaint  even  when 
noxious  gases  discoloured  their  complexions, 
and  were  a  threat  to  health  as  well  as  beauty. 
During  the  time  I  was  in  London  there  was 
a  terrible  explosion  in  one  of  these  munition 
factories,  resulting  in  the  death  of  scores  of 
women,  and  the  maiming  of  far  more.  I 
heard  the  opinion  expressed  that  so  dire  an 
accident  would  frighten  the  women  workers, 

107 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

and  that  it  was  probable  many  would  not 
return  to  work  the  next  day.  Nothing  of 
the  kind  occurred.  It  was  proudly  reported 
that  on  the  day  after  the  calamity  not  a 
single  woman  in  the  London  area  was 
absent  from  her  post.  They  were  doing 
their  bit,  and  they  were  not  to  be  outdone 
by  soldiers  in  the  trenches  in  taking  the 
chance  of  death  with  a  gay  deliberate 
courage. 

Even  more  remarkable  in  the  light  of 
past  history  was  the  fact  that  the  people 
had  surrendered  all  their  rights  and  liberties 
into  the  hands  of  the  Government.  No 
people  has  ever  fought  harder  for  their 
liberties  ;  nowhere  on  earth  has  individual- 
ism claimed  so  wide  a  latitude.  I  shall 
hardly  be  contradicted  if  I  say  that  the 
English  are  the  most  contentious  people  in 
the  world  where  personal  rights  are  in- 
volved, the  readiest  to  resist  authority,  the 
quickest  to  resent  improper  interference, 
always  bristling  with  pugnacity  at  the  least 

io8 


THE   SECOND    VISION   OF   WAR 

threat  of  tyranny,  and  making  it  one  of 
their  chief  pursuits  and  pleasures  to  oppose 
whatever  government  happens  to  exist, 
whether  good  or  bad.  Yet  all  these  indi- 
vidual liberties,  so  hardly  fought  for,  were 
surrendered  without  a  protest.  Hotels 
were  commandeered  for  public  uses  ;  regu- 
lations were  put  on  light  and  food  ;  the 
railways  were  run  by  the  Government  ; 
the  public  houses  were  submitted  to  a 
strict  discipline,  which  before  the  war, 
had  it  been  attempted  in  a  much  less  dras- 
tic form,  would  have  resulted  in  violent 
mob-meetings,  street-fighting,  and  possibly 
insurrection. 

An  amazing  England  indeed,  an  England 
refashioned  and  reborn  into  a  likeness  of 
which  past  history  gave  no  indication,  held 
no  barest  hint  of  prophecy.  An  England 
no  longer  divided  by  party,  turbulent  in 
counsel,  complacently  individualistic  in 
spirit,  but  welded  into  unity,  coherent,  de- 
termined, moving  with  the  perfect  rhythm 

109 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

of  common  action  toward  a  common  end. 
By  what  miracle  had  the  change  been 
wrought  ?  It  was  the  fruit  of  a  new  ideal- 
ism working  like  a  potter's  hand  upon  the 
plastic  soul  of  the  nation,  the  soul  whose 
hard  crust  of  materialism  and  selfishness 
was  broken,  whose  inner  substance  had 
been  softened  and  made  plastic  by  the 
process  of  a  great  suffering. 

Out  of  that  suffering  there  had  arisen  a 
new  ideal  of  the  State.  It  was  no  longer 
the  paid  soldier's  business  to  defend  it,  but 
the  solemn  primal  duty  of  every  man  who 
had  a  home  he  loved,  or  a  hand  that  could 
grasp  a  musket,  to  defend  it.  It  was  a 
new  ideal  of  personal  life.  What  the  true 
prophets  of  the  race  had  preached  so  long 
to  heedless  ears  was  now  seen  to  be  true : 
the  chief  end  of  life  was  not  to  get,  but  to 
give. 

Renounce  joy  for  my  fellow's  sake  ? 
That's  joy  beyond  joy. 

The  values  of  life  were  all  altered.    Wealth 
no 


THE    SECOND    VISION   OF   WAR 

had  suddenly  become  valueless,  and  the 
sordid  quest  of  wealth  a  sacrilege.  Per- 
sonal happiness  had  been  supplanted  by  an 
ideal  of  collective  good.  Death  was  not  the 
ultimate  disaster,  for  there  were  things 
more  to  be  feared  than  death.  To  suffer 
for  a  cause  was  no  longer  the  sole  preroga- 
tive of  martyrs,  it  was  the  common  privilege. 
And  these  ideals,  working  themselves  out 
in  practical  results,  had  produced  something 
so  astonishing  that  it  was  all  but  incredible. 
What  the  boasted  supermen  of  Germany 
had  accomplished  by  forty  years  of  intense 
effort,  backed  by  every  weapon  that  auto- 
cracy could  wield,  England  had  achieved 
in  two  years.  She  had  built  a  war  machine 
superior  to  Germany's  ;  she,  who  had  so 
long  loved  peace  and  striven  for  it,  had  put 
five  million  men  in  the  field,  and  each  man 
was  there  because  he  had  so  willed  it.  She 
had  appealed  not  to  the  lust  of  world- 
dominion,  but  to  that  deep  love  of  liberty 
and  justice  which  was  inherent  in  the  Eng- 

III 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

lish  heart,  and  at  her  voice  the  England 
of  Cromwell  had  risen  from  the  grave,  but 
a  much  greater  England  than  Cromwell 
knew,  inspired  by  a  wider  vision  and  dedi- 
cated to  a  harder  task. 


II 

This  new  spirit  which  was  in  the  English 
people  manifested  itself  in  many  ways. 
The  general  public  spectacle  of  collective 
energy  directed  to  a  common  task  was 
impressive,  but  this  was  not  all.  Indi- 
viduals were  changed.  Persons  whom  I 
had  known  well  during  my  long  residence 
in  London  were  changed.  They  spoke 
with  a  new  accent,  acted  in  a  new  way. 

I  can  best  explain  that  change  by  an 
illustration.  When  I  left  London  for  Ame- 
rica in  1904  there  was  a  religious  revival 
at  work  ih  Wales  which  was  unlike  any 
other  movement  of  the  kind,  both  in  its 
method  and  its  quality.     It  was  not  organ- 

112 


THE   SECOND    VISION  OF   WAR 


ized,  it  had  no  outstanding  preacher,  it  was 
scarcely  directed  ;  it  was  in  the  strict  sense 
of  the  word  a  movement,  a  mysterious 
stirring  of  the  depths,  a  spreading  wave,  a 
swelling  and  rush  of  spiritual  tides  that 
swept  through  the  entire  Principality.  I 
remember  an  agnostic  journalist  telling  me 
that  no  sooner  did  he  reach  Wales  than 
there  fell  on  him  a  curious  awe.  He  had 
intended  to  write  a  cynical  article  for  his 
newspaper — all  his  articles  were  cynical — 
but  he  was  overwhelmed  by  the  sense  of  a 
spiritual  power  which  he  could  not  compre- 
hend. He  came  back  to  London  with  his 
article  unwritten.  "  I  feel,"  he  said,  "  as 
though  I  had  seen  God." 

The  England  of  1916-17  produced  in  me 
a  similar  sensation.  I  do  not  mean  that 
there  was  any  sign  of  a  revival  of  religion. 
The  change  had  nothing  to  do  with  organ- 
ized religion.  The  churches  were  by  no 
means  crowded,  and  public  worship  was, 
from  all   I   could  observe   and  hear,   less 

113 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 


popular  than  in  times  of  peace.  But  the 
change  was  there,  and  its  signs  were  a 
strange  composure,  a  detachment  from  self, 
an  elevation  of  thought  and  temper,  percep- 
tible in  all  classes  of  society.  One  could 
only  describe  it  as  the  soul  of  a  nation 
liberated  from  long  bondage  and  express- 
ing itself  in  new  terms.  And  there  were 
moments  when  the  sense  of  miracle,  of 
spiritual  forces  visibly  at  work,  was  so 
overwhelming  that  the  same  curious  awe 
fell  on  me  which  my  cjoiical  London  jour- 
nalist had  felt,  and  like  him  I  said,  "  I  feel 
as  though  I  am  seeing  God." 

It  may  be  thought  that  I  exaggerate. 
It  may  be  said,  "  But  America  has  been  at 
war  for  some  months,  and  no  such  pheno- 
menon as  this  has  been  discernible."  But 
the  cases  are  not  equal.  I  thankfully 
admit  that  a  great  change  has  passed  over 
American  life  since  that  memorable  Good 
Friday  of  1917  when  America  declared  war. 
Millions  of  men  and  women  have  altered 

114 


THE   SECOND   VISION   OF   WAR 

the  entire  method  of  their  lives,  replacing 
selfish  personal  aims  with  devoted  public 
service.  The  flower  of  American  youth  has 
dedicated  itself  to  the  war,  and  many  an 
American  girl,  bred  to  an  empty  round  of 
social  pleasure,  has  crossed  the  seas  to  toil 
among  the  maimed  and  dying  in  the 
hospitals  of  France.  Nevertheless,  the 
cases  are  not  equal.  The  war  has  not  yet 
touched  the  deep  springs  of  American  life. 
The  tide  of  blood  has  scarcely  washed  her 
shores.  The  grim  agony  of  the  conflict, 
with  its  daily  toll  of  death,  its  frightful 
casualty  lists,  its  demand  on  faith  and 
fortitude,  has  not  yet  gripped  the  heart  of 
the  American  people.  Two  years  of  war  had 
done  these  things  for  England.  Men  and 
women  had  been  violently  thrown  back  on 
primal  conceptions  of  faith  and  duty,  and 
had  been  forced  to  refashion  their  creeds 
in  conformity  with  their  circumstances. 
They  had  looked  into  the  eyes  of  death, 
and  had  seen  there  that  which  made  the 

I  115 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

common  uses  of  life  worthless.  That  was 
the  secret  of  their  spiritual  transformation. 
Before  the  war  is  done  the  same  trans- 
formation will  come  to  America.  It  is 
already  at  work,  and  lies  at  the  root  of 
things.  When  it  is  accomplished,  as  it 
surely  will  be,  I  shall  not  be  accused  of 
exaggeration  when  I  say  that  a  solemn  awe 
fell  on  me  as  I  looked  on  that  England  of 
proud  sorrow  and  exalted  heroism  which 
met  me  in  the  last  days  of  1916. 

Here  is  one  feature  of  the  scene,  small  in 
itself  but  deeply  significant.  I  have  spoken 
of  the  multitudes  of  maimed  soldiers  in  the 
streets,  the  theatres,  the  restaurants,  and 
they  were  indications  of  how  wide  had  been 
the  swath  cut  by  the  scythes  of  death 
among  the  people.  "  Every  one  has  lost 
some  one,"  people  said.  Yet,  as  I  watched 
the  London  streets,  comparatively  few 
wore  black.  In  the  old  days,  especially 
among  the  poorer  classes,  no  imagined 
insult   to   the   dead  could  be  more  heart- 

116 


THE   SECOND    VISION   OF   WAR 


less  than  not  to  wear  black  for  them. 
Decency  demanded  the  trappings  of  be- 
reavement, and  a  grief  that  wore  not  the 
apparel  of  grief  was  not  a  real  grief. 

I  went  to  a  theatre  one  night  to  hear 
Harry  Lauder.  His  son,  on  whom  all  his 
hopes  were  set,  had  been  killed  in  action  a 
week  or  two  earlier.  He  was  a,bsent  from 
the  stage  for  two  nights  ;  on  the  third  he 
resumed  his  part,  sapng  that  he  believed 
his  son  would  have  wished  him  to  go  on 
doing  his  bit.  The  part  that  he  had  to 
perform  was  the  cruellest  test  of  courage 
that  could  be  imagined.  The  scene  was 
set  at  the  Horse  Guards  ;  a  company  of 
men  in  khaki  marched  past  to  the  gay  lilt  of 
martial  music  ;  Lauder  sang  a  song  about 
the  boys  coming  home.  Conceive  the  situ- 
ation :  his  own  son  lay  dead,  and  he  had 
to  sing  of  the  boys  coming  home  !  It 
seemed  as  if  the  management  should  have 
cut  this  song  ;  every  canon  of  decency 
demanded  it.     But  the  song  was  the  best 

117 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

thing  in  the  performance  ;  to  have  omitted 
it  would  have  deprived  the  pubhc  of  a 
pleasure,  and  Lauder  himself  would  not 
have  agreed  to  its  deletion,  for  it  would  not 
have  been  "  doing  his  bit."  He  sang  it 
with  every  nerve  drawn  tense.  His  stem  set 
face,  deeply  lined  ;  his  trembling  lips  and 
stiff  attitude,  witnessed  to  the  strain  he 
suffered.  But  he  sang  it  to  the  end  without 
faltering,  and  left  the  stage  amid  the  sympa- 
thetic silence  of  his  audience.  That  silence 
was  their  tribute  to  one  of  the  rarest  acts  of 
courage  that  the  stage  had  ever  witnessed. 
I  dined  with  an  old  friend  one  night, 
whose  children  had  been  brought  up  with 
my  own.  When  the  war  broke  out  his 
eldest  daughter  was  newly  married  to  a 
brilliant  University  professor.  He  enlisted 
at  once,  with  the  entire  consent  of  his  young 
wife.  He  went  to  France  with  the  first 
British  forces,  fought  through  eight  terrible 
months  unscathed,  and  came  home  on 
leave  to  see  his  new-bom  son.     He  returned, 

ii8 


THE   SECOND    VISION   OF   WAR 

and  within  a  few  weeks  news  came  that  he 
was  severely  injured.  His  wife  instantly 
crossed  the  Channel,  but  arrived  at  the 
hospital  too  late  to  see  him  alive.  She 
travelled  back  alone,  and  her  mother  said, 
*'  We  sat  in  this  room  dreading  her  arrival. 
We  watched  the  garden  gate,  and  wondered 
what  we  could  say  to  her  when  she  came, 
and  how  we  could  comfort  her.  She  came 
at  last,  just  as  the  darkness  fell,  and  directly 
we  saw  her  we  knew  that  it  was  she  who 
would  comfort  us,  not  we  who  could  com- 
fort her.  She  was  perfectly  composed ; 
she  came  up  the  garden  path  quietly  and 
proudly.  I  could  not  have  imagined  it 
possible.  All  I  can  say  about  it  is,  that 
Dorothy  seemed  to  have  found  the  peace 
that  passeth  understanding." 

The  words  were  spoken  without  tears. 
We  rose  and  went  down  to  dinner,  and  a 
more  cheerful  meal  I  never  shared.  In  the 
middle  of  the  meal  the  youngest  girl 
arrived.     She  left  home  every  morning  at 

119 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 


six  o'clock  to  work  in  a  munition  factory  on 
the  other  side  of  London.  There  was  but 
one  son  in  the  family,  and  he  was  a  soldier 
in  France.  He  also  had  lately  been  home 
on  leave,  bringing  with  him  a  knapsack 
shot  through  with  shrapnel.  The  war  had 
revolutionized  the  entire  life  of  this  family. 
Yet  it  had  left  no  touch  of  gloom.  Often, 
in  the  old  days,  I  had  talked  with  my 
friend  on  the  serious  things  of  life,  for  he  was 
one  of  the  few  men  I  knew  who  possessed 
a  philosophic  mind.  After  dinner  he  began 
to  talk  of  life  and  death,  quite  naturally,  in 
quite  the  old  way.  When  I  happened  to 
mention  his  father,  who  had  died  years 
before,  saying  how  I  wished  he  could  be 
with  us,  he  said  simply,  "  I  have  no  doubt 
he  is  with  us  now.  He  has  probably 
watched  you  eating  your  dinner  at  the 
table  where  he  so  often  sat,  and  I'm  quite 
sure  he  was  pleased  that  you  enjoyed  it." 
He  did  not  say  it,  but  I  knew  he  meant  me 
to  imply  that  his  daughter's  husband  was 

120 


THE   SECOND    VISION   OF   WAR 

with  us  too.  He  also,  in  his  total  repudia- 
tion of  death  as  anything  but  a  momentary 
pause  in  being,  had  found  the  peace  that 
passeth  understanding. 

I  may  admit  that  these  dear  friends  of 
mine  were  unusual  people.  They  had  in- 
herited and  developed  a  certain  strain  of 
fineness.  But  I  met  the  same  attitude  of 
mind  in  humble  men  and  women,  who 
could  boast  of  no  such  heritage.  I  made  a 
point  of  searching  out  some  of  them  who 
had  lost  sons  and  husbands,  and  on  the  lips 
of  none  did  I  hear  a  single  bitter  or  resentful 
word.  They  had  given  the  most  precious 
treasure  that  they  had  to  the  Cause,  and 
they  were  proud  to  do  it.  They  had  risen, 
not  by  virtue  of  a  special  culture,  but  by 
native  greatness  of  spirit,  to  meet  supreme 
occasions.  What  shall  we  say  of  the  widow 
who,  when  she  was  informed  of  the  death 
of  her  only  son,  replied,  "  My  greatest 
sorrow  is  that  I  have  not  another  son  to 
give?"     Or    how   shall    we    estimate    the 

121 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 


heroism  of  the  country  pastor's  wife,  who 

received  the  telegram  announcing  her  son's 

death  on  Sunday  morning,  and  locked  it  up 

till  night  had  come,  because  she  did  not 

wish  her  husband  to  learn  the  bitter  news 

till  all  his  Sabbath  duties  were  fulfilled? 

Such  acts  truly  surpass  human  nature.    Of 

the  rare  hero  of  history  we  expect  them  : 

his  allies 

Are  exaltations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 

The  miracle  is  to  find  them  latent  in  all 
human  hearts,  to  discover  a  whole  nation 
capable  of  heroic  tempers  which  we  sup- 
posed the  sole  possession  of  the  lofty  few. 

Ill 

The  effect  upon  my  own  mind  of  these 
experiences  will  be  readily  perceived. 

Living  in  America,  among  people  who 
had  been  called  upon  to  make  no  active 
sacrifices   for   the   war,    my  position   was 

122 


THE  SECOND   VISION  OF   WAR 

isolated  and  peculiar.  I  was  the  recipient 
of  much  sympathy  and  consideration,  but 
this  very  consideration  had  the  effect  of 
fixing  my  own  thoughts  more  thoroughly 
upon  the  features  of  my  own  case.  This 
is  not  good  for  a  man.  It  magnifies  his 
burden,  and  makes  it  impossible  for  him  to 
forget  it.  Every  sympathetic  word  uttered 
by  persons  whose  own  lives  run  smoothly 
emphasizes  the  tragedy  of  his  own  life,  and 
sets  him  thinking  anew  of  the  pang  'of 
parting  and  the  loneliness  of  separation. 
It  helps  to  keep  alive  his  resentment  of  the 
blow  that  has  shattered  his  schemes  of  happi- 
ness, and  by  so  much  weakens  his  fortitude. 
In  visiting  England  I  attained  a  new 
perspective.  My  case  ceased  to  be  peculiar ; 
it  was  commonplace.  No  one  was  pre- 
pared to  waste  sentiment  upon  me,  because 
every  one  had  risen  above  the  need  of  senti- 
mental consolation.  The  path  that  I  had 
thought  solitary  proved  to  be  a  thronged 
road.     I  was  one  of  millions,  who  carried 

123 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

the  same  Cross  up  the  same  Calvary.  And 
there  was  a  stem  reality  in  this  catholicity 
of  suffering.  It  burned  out  self-pity,  and 
all  the  weakness  that  self-pity  breeds. 
Job,  afflicted  by  a  calamity  that  is  solitary, 
fills  the  world  with  bitter  outcry  ;  had  the 
houses  of  all  his  friends,  with  their  children 
and  their  cattle,  been  destroyed  by  the  same 
earthquake  that  ruined  him,  he  would  have 
been  ashamed  of  personal  complaint.  Col- 
lective calamity  creates  collective  courage. 
When  one  house  in  a  city  bums  there  is 
general  commiseration,  but,  when  a  whole 
city  bums,  its  citizens  forget  their  own 
losses,  and  at  once  combine  in  a  brave 
effort  to  rebuild  it. 

England  was  rebuilding  her  City.  Much 
had  been  destroyed.  The  old  life  of  careless 
ease  had  vanished,  never  to  return.  Wreck- 
ed homes  were  everywhere.  No  class  had 
escaped  the  devastating  whirlwind.  The 
landed  gentry  and  the  aristocracy  had 
suffered  equally  with  the  peasant  and  the 

124 


THE  SECOND   VISION  OF   WAR 


artisan.  Heirs  of  noble  families  had  been 
slain  in  battle,  and  great  titles,  which  repre- 
sented centuries  of  public  service,  were 
threatened  with  extinction.  The  heads  of 
great  businesses  had  no  sons  left  to  whom 
they  could  bequeath  their  fortunes.  Poets 
and  men  of  letters  had  perished.  These 
were  conspicuous  in  their  death,  but  the 
clerk  also  had  left  his  desk,  the  workman 
his  job,  to  die  upon  the  fields  of  Flanders, 
with  the  same  devotion.  In  a  real  sense 
which  before  the  war  would  have  been 
unthinkable,  all  class  distinctions  had  dis- 
appeared. The  nation  was  one,  and  this 
unprophesied  unity  had  been  accomplished 
by  a  common  suffering. 

The  same  result  will  no  doubt  be  accom- 
plished in  America  before  the  war  is  done. 
The  real  unity  of  nations  is  not  achieved 
through  shared  prosperity  but  through 
shared  suffering.  In  a  recent  letter  written 
from  the  Front,  I  read  the  words,  "  Here, 
in  the  trenches,  it  is  the  sharing  which  is  the 

125 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

truly  wonderful  thing.  Oh,  the  joy  of  the 
sharing."  The  letter  was  written  by  an 
ordinary  man,  but  he  had  discovered  some- 
thing that  made  him  extraordinary.  Eng- 
land had  made  the  same  discovery.  Losing 
her  life,  she  had  gained  it.  The  divine 
spirit  of  sharing  had  given  her  a  real  unity 
which  she  had  never  known.  And  so  she 
was  rebuilding  her  City,  but  upon  a  nobler 
plan.  Individualism  was  dead ;  it  was 
replaced  by  a  sacrificial  collectivism.  And 
one  effect  of  that  new  collectivism  was  to 
extirpate  the  egoism  of  personal  suffering. 
She  had  no  time  or  patience  for  vain  self- 
pity.  She  sat  amid  the  wreckage  of  the 
past,  austere  and  strong,  with  wide  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  future.  She  demanded 
from  all  her  children  courage.  She  regarded 
agony  as  a  commonplace.  She  made  me 
feel  that  in  giving  three  sons  to  her  service 
I  had  done  no  more  than  I  ought  to  do,  and 
that  to  have  done  less  would  have  meant 
dishonour.      I   had  done   no    more    than 

126 


THE   SECOND    VISION   OF   WAR 

multitudes  of  men  had  done,  and  had  I 
done  less  I  should  have  been  unworthy  of 
her  motherhood. 

I  would  not  be  interpreted  as  saying  that 
the  England  of  1916  was  flawless  in  her 
virtues.  Old  habits  of  thought  are  not 
broken  in  a  moment,  although  there  may 
be  created  in  some  decisive  moment  the 
force  which  finally  destroys  them.  There 
were  here  and  there  obscure  persons  who 
clung  to  the  fragments  of  an  exploded 
pacifism.  Hidden  in  some  safe  occupation, 
one  might  discover  now  and  then  a  miser- 
able youth  who  had  dodged  the  call  of  duty, 
and  was  ashamed  to  walk  the  streets, 
beneath  the  eyes  of  men  in  khaki.  But 
these  were  the  exceptions,  and  for  them,  in 
the  long-run,  conscription  waited.  Nor  was 
this  rebirth  of  virtue,  as  I  have  already 
said,  attended  by  any  features  that  were 
the  specific  product  of  religion.  It  was 
composed  of  elements  that  lie  deeper  than 
conventional  religion.     It  was  the  forcing 

127 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

up  of  hidden  strata  which  he  beneath  all 
religions.  It  was  the  essential  soul  of  the 
nation,  resurgent  through  the  wreckage  of 
many  conventional  beliefs,  a  little  amazed 
at  itself,  not  yet  fully  able  to  articulate  its 
faith,  but  conscious  of  a  new  faith  based  on 
the  reaUty  of  things,  in  the  strength  of  which 
it  would  shape  and  inherit  a  diviner  future. 
This  was  my  second  vision  of  War.  The 
first  had  revealed  only  the  destructive  force. 
When  the  first  great  thunder-clap  of  battle 
broke  upon  the  world  I  was  so  dismayed 
that  I  would  have  been  glad  to  die.  I  had 
no  desire  left  to  live  in  a  world  which  had 
learned  so  little  from  the  follies  of  the  past 
that  it  was  wilHng  to  repeat  them,  with  an 
utter  disregard  of  the  voice  of  wisdom  and 
experience.  When  the  dark  fringes  of  the 
storm  began  to  sweep  across  my  own  life, 
I  was  still  conscious  only  of  its  destructive 
force.  It  was  about  to  root  up  my  happi- 
ness, and  scatter  my  house  of  life  in  uncon- 
sidered ruin.     But   this   second   vision   of 

128 


THE   SECOND    VISION   OF   WAR 

War  revealed  a  constructive  force,  stead- 
fastly at  work  beneath  visible  destruction. 
I  saw  its  elemental  fires  burning  out  the 
unrealities  from  the  thoughts  and  lives  of 
men.  I  saw  it  consuming  a  vast  holocaust 
of  human  shams,  as  Savonarola  once  burned 
the  vanities  in  the  Piazza  of  Florence.  He 
burned  the  wanton  book,  the  l^wd  picture, 
the  gay  apparel,  the  means  and  instruments 
of  selfish  and  voluptuous  life  ;  this  diviner 
fire  was  burning  up  the  qualities  which 
produced  these  things.  It  was  clean  flame, 
attacking  all  that  was  unclean — ^the  plague 
of  decadence,  the  corruption  of  cowardice, 
the  rottenness  of  selfish  living,  the  foolish 
pride,  and  the  still  more  foolish  compla- 
cency of  stagnant  lives.  And  it  did  more 
than  destroy  the  evil  :  it  made  room  for  the 
good  to  grow  and  thrive.  The  world  lay 
scorched  and  sterile  for  a  time,  as  it  did 
when  the  primal  creative  fires  had  spent 
themselves  ;  but  the  verdure  of  a  new  Eden 
began  already  to  appear,  and  Beauty  trod  be- 

129 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

hind  the  footsteps  of  Destruction.  Who  was 
I  that  I  should  resist  that  cosmic  process  ? 
How  great  would  be  my  loss  if  I  was  not  a 
part  of  it !  Rather,  was  it  not  my  wisdom 
to  embrace  the  cleansing  fire,  for  were  there 
not  things  in  me  that  deserved  to  perish? 
I  knew  that  this  was  so,  and  in  myself  I 
felt  the  beginnings  of  a  new  heart.  I  saw 
*War  reconstructing  men  into  a  nobler 
image,  and  what  could  I  do  but  pray  that 
that  image  might  appear  in  me  ?  This  was, 
in  truth,  my  one  supreme  chance  of  attain- 
ing heroism.  Whatever  happened,  this 
was  my  immitigable  duty,  to  be  worthy  of 
my  sons,  and  worthy  of  the  great  cause  to 
which  they  were  devoted. 


130 


THE  COMRADE  HEART 

I  led  thee  once,  hut  now  thy  steadier  feet 

Move  upward,  where  the  cloud  and  mountains  meet. 

And  all  is  changed  from  that  which  went  before. 

I  am  no  more  thy  spirit's  creditor, 

But  am  become  thy  debtor  :  I,  who  lent 

Thee  strength,  now  borrowing  thine  when  mine  is  spent. 

The  Pentecostal  fire  that  once  was  mine 
Now  leaves  ungrudged  my  brow,  and  burns  on  thine. 
And  in  thy  speech  I  hear  what  none  may  bind — 
The  voices  of  God's  mighty  rushing  wind. 

For  thou  hast  found  great  wisdom,  0  my  son  ; 
Through  singleness  of  purpose  thou  hast  won 
Thy  way  through  vales  of  limitless  self-shame 
To  that  firm  mind  which  seeks  but  loves  not  fame  ; 
And  last  through  Faith,  that,fixt  on  noble  ends, 
Bends  to  its  use  the  plastic  will,  and  bends 
Alike  opposing  circumstance,  the  Power 
That  overcomes  the  World  and  its  dark  Hour. 

0  Thou,  my  Star,  my  Light,  my  other  Soul, 

Not  separate  are  we  :  toward  one  goal 

Our  spirits  move  upon  the  wide-drawn  arc 

Of  common  skies,  thro'  brightness  and  thro'  dark  ; 

Nor  shall  it  my  parental  pride  displease 

That  thou  increasest,  but  that  I  decrease. 


K  131 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

I 

A  STRANGE  thing  is  happening  in  these 
days  :  the  children  are  educating  their 
parents.  This  is  a  war  of  youth.  In  the 
long  lines  of  battle  is  arrayed  the  youth  of 
nations.  From  many  thousands  of  homes 
the  eyes  of  parents  are  fixed  upon  the  sons 
who  carry  the  family  name  and  honour  in 
their  hands.  The  larger  aspects  of  the  war 
are  concentrated  in  the  soldier-son  ;  for  the 
parent  he  is  the  war.  The  morning  news- 
papers are  searched  for  any  item  that  may 
give  the  clue  to  his  concealed  existence,  and 
Arras,  Vimy,  and  Lens  are  not  so  much  vital 
points  in  military  strategy  as  the  theatres  of 
action  where  he  performs  his  part. 
The  father  of  a  soldier  thus  finds  himself 

133 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

living  a  new  kind  of  life,  as  new  and  strange, 
though  in  a  different  way,  as  the  life  his  son 
lives.  The^Jphysical  world  itself  is  remade 
for  him.  Places  that  were  formerly  not 
so  much  as  geographical  expressions  be- 
come focused  in  the  light  of  actuality. 
He  talks  familiarly  of  Ypres,  Cource- 
lette,  Gallipoli,  Mesopotamia,  Salonika,  as 
though  he  knew  them  as  well  as  the  towns 
within  a  day's  journey  of  his  home.  He 
has  a  new  sense  of  world-politics.  A  ward 
election,  or  at  the  most  a  Presidential 
contest,  formerly  set  the  high-water  mark 
of  his  political  activities.  He  is  now  thrust 
into  a  world  of  larger  horizons,  the  solidarity 
of  mankind  becomes  real  to  him.  He  finds 
his  life  profoundly  affected  by  events 
happening  thousands  of  miles  away,  and 
he  becomes  a  student  of  these  events.  It 
is  of  immense  moment  what  goes  on  behind 
the  guarded  doors  of  European  chancel- 
leries, what  Bernhardi  writes  or  Hindenburg 
may  plan,  what  happens  in  South  Africa 

134 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 


or  Bagdad,  how  the  line  of  battle  sways 
beside  the  Tigris  or  the  Jordan.  His 
thoughts  have  ceased  to  be  local  and  have 
become  cosmopolitan. 

This  is  but  the  superficial  aspect  of  the 
case.  A  more  important  process  is  at 
work  in  his  range  of  ethical  conceptions. 
Like  most  men,  long  accustomed  to  security 
and  ease  of  life,  he  has  never  paid  much 
attention  to  the  foundations  on  which 
political  security  reposes.  He  has,  no 
doubt,  a  sentimental  reverence  for  liberty. 
He  knows  enough  of  history  to  appreciate 
its  value  and  the  heroism  of  those  who  have 
won  it  for  him.  He  takes  it  for  granted 
that  every  one  values  liberty,  because  he 
himself  values  it.  But  as  he  had  grown 
better  off,  and  comforts  have  been  multi- 
plied to  him,  his  love  for  liberty  has  become 
a  very  placid  love.  Very  probably  he  has 
grown  a  little  critical  about  its  benefits,  and 
in  expansive  moments  has  uttered  oracular 
remarks  about  the  peril  of  liberty  degenera- 

135 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

ting  into  licence.  But  now  that  his  son 
has  gone  to  the  war,  Liberty  has  suddenly 
assumed  a  new  aspect.  He  sees  it  as  a  real 
thing,  and  the  divinist  thing  in  human 
life.  He  sees  that  the  true  line  of  cleavage 
is  between  men  who  love  liberty  and  men 
who  do  not ;  nations  that  are  free,  and 
nations  that  are  servile ;  peoples  who 
prefer  martyrdom  to  tyranny  and  peoples 
who  "  prefer  bondage  with  ease  to  stren- 
uous liberty."  The  lines  are  drawn,  the 
camps  are  set,  and  he  must  make  his  choice. 
His  son  is  serving  in  the  cause  of  freedom, 
and  he  must  needs  follow  where  his  son 
leads.     His  son  has  educated  him. 

The  same  thing  happens  to  his  theories 
of  human  government.  Hitherto  he  has 
not  troubled  himself  much  about  them,  for 
he  has  been  conscious  of  no  need  to  examine 
and  define  them.  He  has  assumed  that 
English  or  American  modes  of  government 
are  the  best,  and  has  never  met  a  man  rash 
or  bold  enough  to  contradict  him.     As  for 

136 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

Germany,  he  has  been  enamoured  of  her 
efficiency,  and  has  never  troubled  himself 
to  think  of  what  lies  behind  it.  He  has  had 
no  objection  to  employing  German  clerks, 
and  has  even  magnified  their  superiority 
to  the  native  product.  He  has  thought 
the  interchange  of  German  professors  with 
American  in  University  teaching  an  excel- 
lent thing,  and  has  very  likely  planned  to 
send  his  son  to  Germany  to  complete  his 
education.  Now  his  son  has  gone  to  fight 
Germany,  and  his  eyes  are  opened  to  the 
truth  about  her  form  of  government.  He 
realizes  that  all  her  efficiency  was  created 
for  the  definite  end  of  world-power.  He 
sees  that  there  is  an  irreconcilable  disparity 
between  autocratic  and  free  government. 
He  knows  that  his  own  forms  of  govern- 
ment make  for  world-peace,  and  that  the 
autocratic  militarism  of  Germany  as  surely 
makes  for  world-conffict.  He  would  never 
have  learned  these  things  from  books.  It 
comes  to  him  now  in  one  blinding  flash  of 

137 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

truth,  when  he  sees  that  the  mailed  fist  of 
Germany  has  thrust  itself  into  his  own 
peaceful  home,  and  snatched  his  son  from 
him.     His  son  has  educated  him. 

His  spiritual  conceptions,  if  he  have  any, 
have  suffered  a  similar  transformation. 
He  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  War  and 
Christianity  were  in  deadly  opposition. 
He  has  listened  every  Christmas — it  is 
perhaps  the  only  occasion  in  the  year  when 
he  goes  to  church — to  admirable  homilies 
on  peace.  He  has  taken,  alas,  so  much  for 
granted !  It  has  never  occurred  to  him  to 
study  the  actual  words  of  Christ.  He  has 
never  known  or  has  forgotten  that  Christ 
used  force  when  He  scourged  a  crowd  of 
heartless  hucksters  out  of  the  Temple 
which  they  had  defiled,  that  He  predicted 
wars,  that  He  once  even  counselled  the 
man  who  had  no  sword  to  buy  one.  No 
religious  teacher  has  ever  tried  to  show  him 
the  relation  between  war  and  justice.  Why, 
in  any  case,  should  he  be  concerned  over 

138 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 


such  matters  ?  Is  it  not  an  undoubted  fact 
that  the  growing  humanitarian  sentiment 
of  society  is  ceaselessly  working  towards 
world-peace,  and  that  this  sentiment ;  will 
as  slowly  dissolve  the  iron  sinews  of  war 
as  the  acid  dissolves  the  toughest  metal, 
which  is  impervious  to  the  hammer  ?  Why 
worry  ?  The  world  is  growing  better  all 
the  time,  and  men  are  growing  too  wise  to 
waste  their  substance  in  the  mad  extrava- 
gance of  war.  But  now  all  is  altered. 
The  secret  diabolism  of  the  human  heart 
has  burst  forth  in  violent  explosion.  Deeds 
are  being  done  that  would  disgrace  primeval 
savages.  Christianity  cannot  be  silent  on 
such  outrages,  and  cannot  condone  them. 
Christianity  cannot  be  indifferent  to  justice. 
He  sees  that  now,  but  he  would  never  have 
seen  it  unless  his  son  had  become  a  soldier. 
He  begins  to  recognize  in  his  son's  heroism  a 
more  real  religion  than  he  had  ever  heard 
inculcated  in  churches.  His  son  has  edu- 
cated him. 

139 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

These  are  examples  of  a  process  very 
widely  at  work  among  those  who  have  sons 
at  the  War.  They  belong  to  the  surface  of 
events  ;  there  are  other  processes  pregnant 
with  more  subtle  and  important  transfor- 
mations, of  which  I  will  speak  presently. 
The  examples  I  have  used  are,  however, 
sufficient  to  suggest  that  the  relation  be- 
tween the  father  and  the  son  who  is  a  soldier 
have  become  paradoxical.  The  positions 
formerly  occupied  by  each  are  directly 
reversed.  The  son  becomes  the  teacher  and 
example,  the  parent  the  disciple.  The  son, 
so  long  dependent  on  his  father  for  wisdom, 
now  becomes  the  prophet  of  a  new  wisdom, 
into  which  he  initiates  his  father.  Both 
are  treading  a  path  entirely  new.  For 
neither  is  any  previous  experience  of  life  a 
guide.  They  move  upon  a  dim  and  perilous 
way,  but  it  is  the  son  who  leads.  Out  of 
what  the  son  hopes  and  does,  endures  and 
suffers,  is  bom  a  new  annunciation  of  a 
new  gospel  of  life  and  conduct.     It  is  a  new 

140 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

gospel  for  the  father,  quite  different  from 
all  the  teachings  of  tradition,  in  which  he 
has  placed  his  trust.  It  has  to  be  learnt 
afresh,  in  all  its  strange  outlines,  its  spiritual 
contradictions,  its  dismaying  difficulties,  its 
unexpected  and  original  conclusions. 

This  gospel  I  have  learnt  from  my  sons, 
particularly  from  the  son  who  has  now  seen 
months  of  service  on  the  Western  Front. 
During  all  that  period  he  has  been  my 
unconscious  teacher,  and  I  his  disciple. 

II 

The  chief  means  of  my  education  have 
been  his  letters  from  the  Front.  They 
have  come  with  a  singular  regularity,  in 
spite  of  the  havoc  wrought  by  the  U-boats. 
We  know  when  to  expect  them  ;  they  arrive 
on  Tuesday  or  Wednesday  of  each  week. 
These  are  the  conspicuous  and  splendid 
days  for  which  we  live.  The  other  days  do 
not  count  ;   they  are  merely  the  grey  links 

141 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

between  these  red-letter  days.  The  post- 
man's ring  at  the  door  is  waited  for  with 
tense  nerves.  It  comes,  and  the  one  of  us 
who  is  down  first  shouts  up  the  stairs  to  the 
others,  "  Letters  from  the  Front !  "  They 
lie  upon  the  breakfast  table,  apart  from  all 
the  others :  it  is  a  point  of  honour  that  they 
should  not  be  opened  till  we  are  all  present 
to  hear  them  read  aloud.  They  do  not 
look  like  the  other  letters.  The  other 
letters  have  a  prim  propriety.  They  are 
enveloped  in  good  thick  paper,  and  have 
come  through  the  mail  unsoiled.  They  are 
like  good  children  in  their  fresh  clothes  ; 
but  these  letters  are  the  ragged  children. 
They  are  mud-stained,  misused,  torn  at  the 
edges,  written  in  pencil,  and  the  censor  has 
left  his  mark  upon  them.  They  have  been 
written  anywhere,  in  wet  dug-outs,  upon 
thin  grey  paper,  by  a  guttering  candle,  with 
a  blunt  pencil.  Their  paragraphs  have 
been  punctuated  by  the  roar  of  guns.  They 
have  been  folded  by  a  tired  hand,  long  after 

142 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 


midnight,   and  have   been   carried   to   us 

across  fields  of  carnage.  And  yet  they 
have  the  sacredness  of  Gospels  :  they  con- 
tain indeed  the  Gospel  of  the  Trenches. 

We  sit  silent  for  a  time  after  the  letter  is 
read,  trying  in  vain  to  visualize  the  scene 
which  he  describes.  Perhaps  by  the  same 
mail  there  are  letters  from  my  two  younger 
sons,  one  at  his  solitary  post  in  the  wild 
waters  of  the  Hebrides,  the  other  on  the 
coast  of  Ireland.  Their  environment  is  at 
least  partially  clear  to  us,  for  we  have  seen 
the  egg-shell  patrol  boats  hunting  their  prey 
like  alert  terriers  on  the  fields  of  ocean,  and, 
in  happier  times,  I  have  spent  holidays  on 
those  bare  and  perilous  coasts.  But  these 
seas  of  Flanders  mud,  in  which  the  unburied 
dead  are  perpetually  churned  up,  these 
abominable  desolations  swept  by  the  fly- 
ing death  of  high  explosives,  these  lonely 
observation  posts  where  our  men's  eyes 
watch  for  the  unnoticeable  movement  in 
some  distant  trench  which  is  the  prelude  to 

143 


THE   FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

attack — ^how  can  we  picture  these  things  ? 
Besides,  he  says  hardly  an5rthing  that  is 
definite  about  them.  Any  mention  of  peril 
or  discomfort  is  purely  incidental.  He 
writes  as  though  it  were  an  entirely  normal 
thing  to  be  soaked  with  hours  of  rain,  to 
sleep  in  wet  clothes  for  nights  on  end,  to  play 
cards  with  a  man  in  a  dismal  dug-out  one 
night,  and  see  him  blown  to  pieces  on  the 
morrow,  to  dodge  death  yourself  at  all  times 
— all  these  things  are  in  the  day's  work. 
He  might  be  writing  of  a  game  of  football 
— ^not  of  this  atrocious  game  in  which  the 
stakes  are  liie  and  death  ;  and  he  writes  of 
it  just  as  a  healthy-minded  boy  might  write 
of  the  part  he  takes  in  college  sports,  with 
boyish  high  spirits  and  ignorance  of  danger. 
During  the  day  this  letter  is  always  in 
my  thoughts.  I  put  down  my  writing  in 
the  middle  of  the  morning,  and  read  it 
through  again.  It  means  more  to  me  as  I 
read  it  for  myself  ;  I  can  see  where  the 
pencilled  lines  are  faint  because  the  hand 

144 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 


was  weary,  the  half -finished  sentence  broken 
off,  as  though  he  had  fallen  asleep  while 
writing  it,  woke  up,  and  resumed  it  with  an 
effort.  I  think  I  can  hear  his  voice  now, 
thin  as  an  echo,  a  tiny  voice,  audible  from 
an  immense  distance,  like  the  whisper  on  a 
telephone.  I  think  I  hear  him  saying, 
"  You  know,  don't  you,  why  I  always 
write  in  high  spirits  ?  I  want  to  encourage 
you  three  lonely  folks  at  home.  And, 
recollect,  I  really  am  in  high  spirits,  because 
I've  never  been  so  happy  in  my  life.  I've 
found  my  happiness  where  I  never  supposed 
it  was,  in  doing  the  hardest  thing  I  know  ; 
and,  because  you  have  just  as  hard  a  thing 
to  do,  I  want  you  to  find  it  in  the  same  way. 
No  doubt  I  do  exaggerate  my  high  spirits 
just  a  little  bit  for  your  sakes,  but  you'll 
understand,  won't  you  ?"  Yes,  I  under- 
stand, and  as  I  put  his  letter  down  there 
flows  through  my  heart  a  new  wave  of 
courage  created  by  his  own. 
There  are  touches  of  humour  in  his  letters, 

145 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

perfectly  natural  and  unforced.  He  can 
laugh  at  odd  incidents,  quaint  sayings  of 
the  men,  sometimes  at  his  own  ridiculous 
predicaments.  He  makes  me  realize  that 
war  is  not  all  horror,  and  that  there  is  some 
saving  sanity  in  men  which  enables  them 
to  go  through  scenes  of  horror  with  laughter 
on  their  lips.  I  remember  Lincoln's  saying 
that  laughter  was  his  "  vent  ";  if  he  had  not 
laughed  he  would  have  died  of  a  frenzied 
brain  or  a  broken  heart.  I  realize  that 
these  men  whom  he  commands  are  very 
human  creatures.  They  sing  childish  songs, 
act  in  childish  ways,  and  end  their  letters 
when  they  write  home  with  rows  of  crosses, 
which  stand  for  kisses,  just  as  a  child  does. 
War  has  not  debased  them,  it  has  not 
brutalized  them.  War  has  certainly  not 
destroyed  the  fineness  and  tenderness  of 
my  son's  mind.  He  can  remember  my 
birthday,  cable  from  the  trenches  his  con- 
gratulations, and  be  at  pains  to  order  from 
a  local  florist  roses  for  remembrance. 

146 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

I  perceive  in  these  letters  a  new  growth 
of  human  sympathy.  All  intellectual  pur- 
suits are  narrowing.  He  who  lives  in  a 
world  of  thought  is  apt  to  think  a  good  deal 
more  of  thoughts  than  of  men.  He  is  temp- 
ted to  measure  all  men  by  intellectual  values 
and  to  be  indifferent  toward  plain  and 
common  men,  whose  defects  of  education 
unfit  them  for  intellectual  pursuits.  I  have 
been  guilty  of  that  fault,  and  so,  I  think, 
has  he.  But,  as  I  read  these  letters,  I  am 
conscious  that  this  spirit  has  entirely  disap- 
peared. It  matters  nothing  to  him  that 
few  among  his  comrades  have  read  books, 
that  none  have  read  his  own,  that  they  are 
not  even  aware  that  he  has  written  any. 
He  does  not  despise  them  on  that  account ; 
it  is  a  purely  negligible  deficiency.  His  own 
literary  tastes  remain,  of  course.  He  can 
plan  novels  while  he  lies  in  the  mud  with 
shrapnel  whistling  over  him.  On  one  occa- 
sion, rare  and  memorable,  he  walks  over  No 
Man's  Land  at  night  with  an  officer  who 

L  147 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

loves  Shakespeare,  and  they  debate  together 
the  meaning  of  the  sonnets.  But  he  has 
come  to  see  that  literature  is  a  much  less 
thing  than  Ufe.  He  has  found  in  common 
men  qualities  which  command  his  reverence. 
He  is  one  with  his  kind,  and  his  kind  is 
mankind.  He  has  achieved  the  true  demo- 
cratic spirit,  become  one  of  the  real  brother- 
hood of  man,  and  he  makes  me  ask  myself 
whether  I  am  not  still  unwisely  reverent  of 
intellectual  values  in  men,  and  not  always 
wisely  conscious  of  those  broader  quaUties 
which  make  all  men  my  brothers. 

In  this  new  standard  of  values  courage 
stands  first.  This  is  the  supreme  test  of  the 
soldier.  Though  he  have  the  mind  of  a 
Shakespeare,  and  speak  with  the  tongue  of 
angels,  and  understand  all  mysteries  and 
all  knowledge,  and  have  not  courage,  yet 
is  he  but  as  sounding  brass  or  a  tinkling 
cymbal.  Dare  he  go  forward  when  the  call 
comes,  in  simple  obedience  to  duty  ?  If 
he  is  detailed  to  creep  out  over  the  rotting 

148 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 


dead  at  midnight,  and  cut  the  wire  of  the 
Huns'  defences,  will  he  go  without  hesita- 
tion ?  When  the  guns  must  be  pushed 
forward  to  what  is  called  a  "  sacrifice  " 
position,  will  he  be  the  first  to  volunteer, 
never  thinking  of  his  own  peril  ?  Does  he 
realize  the  corporate  unity  of  an  army,  and 
therefore  realize  that  other  men's  lives  are 
in  his  hands,  and  that  he  must  think  of 
others  before  himself  ?  These  are  the  daily 
tests  which  War  imposes.  To  survive  them 
is  to  win  one's  own  self-respect,  and  the 
respect  of  others  ;  to  fail  is  to  forfeit  both. 
The  fictitious  values  of  life  are  all  stripped 
away  under  the  test  of  battle.  Only  the 
naked  soul  of  a  man  is  left.  Has  it  what  the 
soldier  calls  "  a  yellow  streak  "  ?  Fear  it 
may  have,  but  has  it  the  will  to  conquer 
fear  ?  Does  it  reveal  itself  as  pure,  divine, 
indomitable  flame,  a  spiritual  dynamic  that 
can  control  the  body,  and  drive  it  to  a  task 
from  which  every  nerve  in  the  body  shrinks  ? 
To  discover  in  oneself  this  spiritual  essence 

149 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

which  dominates  the  body  is  to  find  the 
highest  human  happiness  ;  to  find  it  lacking 
is  to  be  disgraced  and  miserable. 

The  joyousness  of  these  letters  springs 
from  the  discovery  of  the  spiritual  self.  In 
civil  life  its  existence  was  not  realized,  for 
there  were  few  occasions  to  evoke  it. 
Sometimes  the  mind  was  haunted  by  a 
shameful  suspicion  that  it  did  not  exist. 
The  atmosphere  of  doubt  had  corroded 
all  our  thinking,  and  had  ended  in  doubt  of 
our  own  souls.  We  were  full  of  self-despis- 
ings,  and  we  knew  we  had  only  too  good 
ground  for  our  contempt.  The  virtue  of 
War  is  that  it  reveals  the  best  and  the  worst 
in  a  man.  It  is  a  rehearsal  of  the  Day  of 
Judgment.  When  it  reveals  a  Best,  of 
whose  existence  we  were  doubtful,  what 
wonder  that  a  man  is  full  of  joy  ?  For  these 
letters  are  joyous.  I  compare  them  with 
other  letters,  written  in  the  years  of  peace. 
These  earlier  letters  were  written  in  scenes 
of  beauty,  from  the  benignant  solitude  of 

150 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

mountains,  from  London,  from  grey  French 
cities  "  half  as  old  as  time,"  where  Ufe  is  a 
lyric  still,  on  whose  air  the  music  of  the 
Troubadour  still  vibrates.  But  in  spite  of 
all  that  made  for  joy,  in  none  of  these  letters 
do  I  find  the  authentic  joy  that  throbs  in 
these  battle-letters.  There  is  always  an 
undercurrent  of  dissatisfaction,  a  whispered 
question  whether,  after  all,  life  is  quite 
worth  while.  In  these  letters  that  perturbing 
question  is  quite  silenced.  No  doubt  about 
life  being  worth  while,  for  life  is  now  express- 
ing the  best  that  is  in  it.  Outward  beauty 
is  not  necessary  to  its  pleasure,  and  out- 
ward horror  cannot  diminish  it.  It  springs 
from  within.  It  is  the  profound  satisfac- 
tion of  a  soul  that  has  realized  itself.  One 
of  these  letters  records  that  one  day,  in  the 
interval  of  gun-fire,  he  heard  a  lark  singing 
with  untroubled  sweetness  in  the  grey  sky. 
So  here,  above  the  grim  facts  of  filth  and 
corruption,  the  soul  sings  joyously,  drawing 
its  joy  from  within  itself,  and  not  from  ex- 

151 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 


tenor  conditions  which  are  hopelessly  at 
variance  with  joy.  To  receive  these  letters 
is,  as  it  were,  to  hear  the  lark-song  of  hope, 
out  of  the  grey  sky  that  often  covers  us. 

For  life  is  often  grey  with  us.  There  is 
no  escape  from  the  apprehension  that  walks 
stealthily  behind  us,  inseparable  as  our 
own  shadows.  We  cannot  hear  the  phone 
ring  without  the  dread  of  what  message  it 
may  bring.  We  hurry  back  from  this  or 
that  engagement,  wondering  what  may  have 
happened  in  our  absence.  Our  first  anxious 
glance  is  toward  the  hall-table,  where  per- 
chance a  cablegram  may  greet  us.  Our 
heart-strings  are  tied  to  that  life  far  away, 
and  not  seldom  they  tremble  with  baseless 
premonition.  It  is  hard  to  fulfil  the  round 
of  public  and  social  duties  under  these 
conditions.  Sympathetic  people  sometimes 
say,  "  How  brave  you  are  \"  But  I  know 
that  I  am  not  braver  than  they,  in  my 
natural  qualities.  1  have  a  melancholic 
tendency.     I  have  a  painful  gift  of  imagi- 

152 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

nation.  When  I  am  separated  from  those 
I  love  I  am  apt  to  construct  poignant 
dramas  of  all  the  dreadful  things  that  may 
have  happened  to  them.  I  have  never 
seen  one  of  my  children  sail  for  Europe 
without  vivid  pictures  of  shipwreck,  which 
have  filled  my  waking  and  my  sleeping 
thoughts.  I  have  never  conquered  these 
habits  of  mind,  and  they  are  still  uncon- 
quered.  But  yet  something  has  happened 
to  me  that  has  negatived  their  force.  I  can 
thrust  them  aside  by  an  effort  of  the  will. 
I  can  go  about  the  business  of  my  life  with 
calmness  of  temper.  I  ask  how  this  has 
come  to  pass,  and  I  know  the  answer.  I 
hear  continually  the  lark's  song  out  of  the 
grey  sky.  I  hear  the  voice  of  Courage,  of 
Faith,  of  Joy,  travelling  to  me  from  those 
distant  battlefields.  I  realize  that  to  be 
unhappy  is  a  form  of  cowardice,  and  that 
all  true  happiness  is  the  fruit  of  courage. 
If  my  resolution  fail,  I  have  only  to  read 
these  letters  again,  and  they  act  on  me  as  a 

153 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 


tonic.  The  impression  they  leave  is  never 
of  the  visible  horror  of  death  and  carnage  ; 
it  is  of  the  invisible  spirit  of  man,  triumph- 
ing over  circumstance,  rising  above  fear, 
acclaiming  itself  divine  and  unconquerable. 
From  my  sons  I  draw  whatever  fortitude 
I  may  possess.  They  have  educated  me 
in  the  school  of  their  own  courage. 

Ill 

I  HAVE  used  the  phrase,  "  the  Gospel  of  the 
Trenches.''  It  has  a  somewhat  strange 
soimd,  and,  as  I  weigh  it,  I  am  aware  that 
it  may  be  considered  by  some  people  para- 
doxical, and  even  profane.  They  will  say 
that  Gospel  is  a  word  of  exquisite  traditions, 
a  synonym  for  infinite  tenderness  and  love 
and  consolation.  But  is  it  only  that  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  Galilean  Gospel,  out 
of  which  the  world  has  built  its  faith,  is 
infinitely  stem  as  well  as  infinitely  tender. 
It  conmiands  loyalty  to  conviction  in  the 

154 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

face  of  death.  It  bids  men  hold  m  scorn 
those  who  slay  the  body,  and  after  that  have 
no  more  that  they  can  do.  It  makes  the 
claim  of  truth  superior  to  the  claim  of  life. 
When  tr^ith  comes  into  collision  with  love, 
it  counsels  men  to  forsake  father  and  mother, 
wife  and  children,  lands  and  houses,  for  the 
sake  of  truth.  It  praises  them  when  they 
do  this  ;  it  condemns  them  when  they  do 
not.  It  is  above  all  things  an  heroic  Gospel, 
a  gospel  that  demands  heroes  and  creates 
them. 

That  is  my  justification  for  the  phrase, 
"  the  Gospel  of  the  Trenches,"  for  the 
message  that  has  come  to  me  from  these 
fields  of  death  is  based  upon  the  same  view 
of  conduct  and  the  same  spiritual. sanctions 
which  were  enunciated  long  ago  in  Galilee. 
I  begin  to  perceive  certain  forgotten  truths 
about  that  Galilean  Gospel  and  its  Master. 
I  find  I  have  been  deceived  by  the  stress 
laid  upon  His  meekness  and  His  lowliness  ; 
even  by  the  emphasis  put  upon  His  loving- 

155 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

kindness.  These  qualities  have  been  inter- 
preted to  me  as  amiability.  But  I  see  now 
that  Christ  was  not  an  amiable  person,  for 
amiability  is  weakness.  An  amiable  Christ 
would  never  have  given  deliberate  offence 
to  the  rulers  of  His  nation,  and  would  not 
have  been  crucified.  He  would  never  have 
insisted  on  men  forsaking  all  whom  they 
loved  to  follow  Him  ;  He  would  have  been 
too  tender-hearted.  There  was  a  sternness 
in  His  character  which  made  Him  terrible. 
He  was  against  all  soft  and  selfish  modes  of 
life.  He  could  be  pitiful  toward  error,  but 
He  had  no  mercy  on  complacent  ease  and 
deliberate  cowardice.  The  whole  impact 
of  His  life  and  teaching  was  to  create  heroes, 
and  He  did  create  them  out  of  the  most 
unpromising  material. 

So  I  find  in  these  letters  something  that 
may  be  called  a  Gospel.  It  is  the  Gospel  of 
Heroism.  It  is  the  story  of  men  who  have 
left  all  things  for  the  sake  of  a  paramount 
duty.     They  are  not  soldiers  by  choice  ; 

156 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

they  are  civilians  who  have  become  soldiers 
under  the  compulsion  of  a  divine  call.  It  is 
probable  that  few  of  them  would  put  it  in 
that  way.  They  are  quite  unconscious  of 
their  own  heroism.  If  we  met  them  they 
would  not  remind  us  in  the  least  of  saints 
and  apostles.  They  have  faults,  and  some 
of  them  have  vices.  Their  virtues  they  are 
accustomed  to  disguise  ;  they  would  count 
it  immodest  to  display  them.  But  the 
virtue  is  there,  that  supreme  virtue  of  self- 
surrender  to  which  Christianity  itself  makes 
its  appeal,  in  response  to  which  men  exceed 
their  own  natures,  and  become  the  true 
supermen  of  the  realms  of  the  spirit. 

They  are  unwilling  to  display  their  vir- 
tues ;  it  is  also  probable  that  few  of  them 
are  capable  of  stating  their  creed.  Its  most 
articulate  article  is  a  certain  quiet  reconci- 
liation with  death.  A  friend  has  just  left 
my  house  whose  boy  has  been  home  on  his 
last  leave  before  going  overseas.  He  is 
only  eighteen,  and  young  for  his  age.     He 

157 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

has  been  trying  to  enlist  ever  since  his 
seventeenth  birthday.  He  succeeded  at  last, 
and  joined  by  choice  a  branch  of  the  service 
which  is  generally  regarded  as  the  most 
dangerous.  Speaking  of  him,  his  father 
said,  "  Of  course  he  expects  to  die.  They 
all  do."  The  words  were  uttered  calmly, 
as  though  they  expressed  a  commonplace  ! 
How  does  a  boy  of  eighteen  arrive  at  such  a 
thought  ?  There  is  only  one  way — the  pro- 
found conviction  that  death  is  not  the 
great  disaster  which  a  comfortable  civiliza- 
tion supposes  it  to  be.  Years  do  not  make 
a  life.  Deeds  afford  the  only  authentic 
measurement  of  life.  Life  is  a  quality  of 
the  spirit  over  which  death  has  no  power. 
There  is  no  greater  victory  possible  to  the 
spirit  of  a  man  than  the  temper  which 
ignores  death  at  the  call  of  duty.  This  boy 
of  eighteen  has  won  that  victory.  All 
these  men  of  whom  my  son  writes  have  won 
it,  won  it  so  completely  that  when  volun- 
teers are  asked  for  some  perilous  service, 

158 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

from  which  it  is  certain  only  one  or  two 
can  return,  the  difficulty  is  not  to  find  volun- 
teers but  to  restrain  the  men  who  jostle 
and  outbid  one  another  in  the  effort  to 
secure  the  chance  of  dying. 

I  notice  a  curious  change  in  myself  in  my 
attitude  to  War  :  I  have  ceased  to  be  acute- 
ly conscious  of  its  horror.  I  do  not  Aiean 
that  I  have  ceased  to  think  of  War  as  abom- 
inable, and  of  its  wholesale  destruction  of 
human  life  as  atrocious.  I  am  indeed  much 
more  sensitive  to  what  this  destruction 
means  than  in  the  early  days  of  the  war, 
because  it  is  interpreted  to  me  to-day  in  the 
threat  that  hangs  over  lives  very  dear  to 
me.  Nevertheless,  I  find  my  mind  dwelling 
less  and  less  upon  the  spectacle  of  physical 
destruction.  Why  is  this  ?  I  think  it  is 
because  I  have  become  more  conscious  of 
the  spiritual  grandeur  of  War.  I  have 
realized  that  man  is  so  much  more  than  his 
body  that  the  loss  of  the  body  is  not  the  loss 
of  the  man.     I  have  learned  to  think  of  the 

159 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

body  of  a  soldier  as  the  vesture  only  of 
the  spirit,  and  of  the  spirit  as  stepping  out 
of  its  torn  and  blood-stained  vesture  in  the 
vigour  of  indestructible  existence. 

This  belief  is,  of  course,  a  traditional 
belief,  inculcated  by  the  Christian  religion  ; 
but  like  most  traditional  beliefs  it  has  little 
real  vitality,  and  no  firm  grip  upon  the  mind. 
I  know  how  little  real  vitality  it  has  had 
for  me  by  the  pains  which  I  have  taken 
to  maintain  it.  I  have  buttressed  it  by  all 
sorts  of  \'Tilnerable  analogies  drawn  from 
nature,  by  the  chance  words  of  science,  by 
the  assertions  of  poets,  by  the  rare  convic- 
tion that  visits  the  mind  when  a  great  man 
disappears  from  the  theatre  of  action,  that 
the  qualities  of  his  mind  and  character 
cannot  be  utterly  extinguished.  But  the 
doubt  remains,  and  for  one  analogy  that 
points  to  the  survival  of  human  personality 
a  hundred  suggest  its  extinction.  It  is 
probable  that  most  intellectual  men  who 
have  a  real  interest  in  religion,  in  their  secret 

i6o 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

thoughts,  never  move  far  beyond  the  dying 
declaration  of  John  SterUng,  that  he  anti- 
cipated death  with  much  of  hope,  and  no 
fear. 

But  this  beUef,  so  solemn  and  consoling, 
has  become  to  me  a  real  belief  to-day,  strong 
enough  to  stand  firm  without  the  vain 
buttresses  of  precarious  analogies.  I  have 
learned  it  from  no  theologian  ;  I  have  been 
persuaded  to  it  by  no  elaborate  argument ; 
it  is  the  natural  deduction  drawn  from  the 
grim  but  splendid  facts  of  war.  It  is  the 
soldier's  faith.  The  soldier  sees  his  com- 
rade, who  yesterday  was  a  sentient,  thiak- 
ing,  foreseeing  creature,  smashed  into  pulp 
by  an  explosive  shell.  His  body  has  disap- 
peared so  completely  that  only  a  handful 
of  pitiful  fragments  remain  to  witness  that 
it  once  existed.  He  is  no  philosopher,  but 
some  inward  voice  assures  him  that  this 
handful  of  battered  clay  is  not  his  comrade. 
He  speaks  of  him  not  as  dead,  but  as  "  gone 
west."    The   west   for  him  represents   all 

i6i 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

that  was  most  precious  in  life — the  prairie 
farm,  the  ranch  house  in  its  orchards,  the 
child,  the  wife,  the  home  he  loved  and  toiled 
for — so  he  has  "  gone  west."  The  phrase 
is  not  to  be  analysed,  but  its  implication  is 
clear — the  body  scattered  in  the  mire  of 
Flanders  is  not  the  man.  The  man  has 
passed  on,  and  taken  with  him  all  that 
composed  his  personality,  his  gaiety  and 
courage,  his  unselfishness  and  heroism,  and 
all  "  the  endearing  blend  of  his  faults  and 
virtues."  The  tragic  ease  with  which  the 
body  vanishes  from  sight  conveys  the  sense 
of  something  unreal  in  his  disappearance. 
So,  in  his  simple  way,  not  arguing  the  matter 
or  being  capable  of  argument,  the  soldier 
assumes  human  immortality  as  a  necessity 
of  thought.  He  could  not  go  on  with  the 
work  of  war  without  it.  He  could  not 
believe  in  God  unless  he  believed  that  the 
spirit  of  a  man  returned  to  God  when  the 
red  earth  received  the  poor  remnants  of 
the  broken  body.     He  stands  upon  a  field 

162 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

covered  with  the  dead,  and  hears  his 
Commander  say,*  "  As  regards  our  com- 
rades who  have  lost  their  lives — ^let  us 
speak  of  them  with  our  caps  off — ^my  faith 
in  the  Almighty  is  such  that  I  am  perfectly 
sure  that  when  men  die,  doing  their  duty 
and  fighting  for  their  country  ...  no  matter 
what  their  past  lives  have  been,  no  matter 
what  they  have  done  that  they  ought  not 
to  have  done  (as  all  of  us  do),  I  am  perfectly 
sure  that  the  Almighty  takes  them  and 
looks  after  them  at  once.  Lads,  we  cannot 
leave  them  better  than  like  that."  He 
hears  the  brave  message,  and  he  accepts  it 
as  a  vital  gospel ;  and  the  words  which  he 
may  have  heard  many  times  as  an  idle 
boast  become  to  him  a  trumpet  sounding 
over  these  fields  of  inhuman  slaughter, 
"  O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?  O  Grave, 
where  is  thy  victory  ?" 
This  sublime  truth  of  the  survival  of 

*  Address  to  the  Canadian  troops,  delivered  on  the  field  of 
battle,  after  twelve  days  and  nights  of  fighting,  from  April  23rd 
to  May  4th,  1915,  by  Lieutenant-Colonel  E.  A.  H.  Alderson,  C.B, 

M  163 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

personality  has  been  made  vital  for  me  by 
the  letters  of  my  son,  and  by  his  conversa- 
tions. In  all  that  he  has  written,  in  all  that 
he  has  said,  this  truth  is  assumed.  Again, 
the  father  has  been  educated  by  the  son, 
and  this  process  is  going  on  in  millions  of 
hearts  to-day.  The  faith  in  the  real  spirit- 
uality of  human  life,  dimmed  by  the  doubt- 
ings  of  agnosticism,  has  recovered  its  divine 
lustre  on  the  battlefield.  We  have  seen 
but  the  pillar  of  cloud  resting  on  the  grave  ; 
our  sons  see  the  pillar  of  fire.  What  we 
have  attained  by  painful  argument,  if 
indeed  we  do  attain  it,  they  have  seized  by 
intuition.  What  creeds  affirm  in  vain  to 
careless  ears,  they  have  heard  as  the  Voice 
of  God  speaking  from  the  heavens.  Strange 
as  it  may  seem,  war  has  strengthened  faith 
in  personal  immortality  among  those  who 
endure  its  utmost  sacrifices,  and  it  would  be 
the  irony  of  all  ironies  if  faith  in  immortahty 
dwindled  in  the  Churches  while  it  shone 
resurgent  on  the  battlefield. 

164 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

I  have  learned  one  other  thing,  which  is 
not  a  light  thing  to  learn,  that  the  fear  of 
sacrifice  is  much  more  terrible  than  its 
reality.  I  have  in  mind  a  mother  who  was 
half  crazed  with  grief  when  her  son  first 
talked  of  enlisting.  She  poured  out  the 
fierce  resentment  of  her  heart  to  all  her 
friends,  and  believed  she  could  not  live  if 
her  son  became  a  soldier,  and  to-day  this 
mother  is  the  proudest  woman  alive.  The 
whole  spirit  of  her  mind,  the  entire  method 
of  her  life,  is  changed.  She  is  first  in  all 
war- work,  indefatigable  in  patriotic  enter- 
prises, unselfishly  giving  all  her  energies  to 
public  duties  ;  and  it  is  clear  to  all  who 
know  her  that  she  has  learned  the  joy  of 
sacrifice  from  her  son.  This  is  my  own 
experience,  as  I  doubt  not  it  is  the  experi- 
ence of  multitudes.  Seen  from  afar,  the 
mountain  summit  appears  ^menacing  and 
inaccessible  ;  but  as  we  approach  nearer 
we  discover  a  practicable  path.  It  is 
steep  and  hard,  but  nevertheless  it  can  be 

165 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

climbed,  and  there  are  clear  fountains 
springing  from  the  rocks  and  flowers  by  the 
wayside. 

We  are  all  of  us,  after  all,  more  adaptable 
than  we  suppose,  more  flexible,  more  plastic 
to  circumstance.  We  assure  ourselves  that 
there  are  certain  conditions  of  life  which 
we  could  not  endure.  That  other  people 
endure  them  and  survive  them  appears  to 
us  a  miracle,  but  we  tell  ourselves  that  we 
are  made  of  different  stuff.  Some  day  we 
find  we  have  to  endure  them.  Wealth  or 
health  disappears,  and  we  have  to  begin 
life  anew  as  poor  men  or  as  invalids.  When 
that  test  comes  we  find  in  ourselves  resources 
of  courage  of  which  we  were  unaware. 
The  stuff  that  we  are  made  of  proves  itself 
to  be  pretty  much  the  same  stuff  that  all 
our  friends  are  made  of,  the  friends  whom 
we  have  thought  of  as  special  heroes  and 
martyrs.  This  is  the  process  through  which 
I  have  passed,  and  through  which  thousands 
of    parents    are    now    passing.     There    is 

i66 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  A  FATHER 

something  in  the  inevitable  that  cahns  us. 
As  long  as  the  fate  we  feared  could  be 
evaded,  we  shuddered  at  it.  When  Fate 
at  last  knocks  at  our  door  we  cease  to 
contend  with  it.  This  is  what  I  mean  when 
I  say  that  the  fear  of  sacrifice  is  worse  than 
its  reality.  We  fear  as  we  enter  into  the 
cloud  that  veils  the  altar  of  sacrifice  ;  when 
once  we  have  entered  it  we  see  that  not 
only  cloud  but  also  ineffable  brightness 
rests  upon  the  altar. 

The  supreme  unselfishness,  the  ungrudged 
self -surrender,  the  patient  and  even  joyous 
endurance  of  the  men  who  fight  our  battles 
is  having  a  profound  effect  upon  the  thought 
of  the  world.  It  is  giving  us  a  new  standard 
of  conduct,  and  is,  in  effect,  the  enunciation 
of  a  new  religion.  Yet  it  is,  after  all,  the 
old  religion  whose  watchword  is  that  he 
who  loseth  his  life  for  a  purpose  superior 
to  self  saves  it ;  he  who  saves  his  Ufe 
unworthily  loses  it — only,  in  our  contented 
security  and  ease,  we  had  forgotten  the 

167 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

watchword.  It  sounds  afresh  to-day  from 
the  red  fields  of  war.  We  begin  to  think 
of  Christ,  not  as  artists  have  painted  Him, 
weeping  unavailing  tears  above  the  slain  in 
battle,  but  as  standing  in  a  strange  new 
pulpit  built  of  shattered  guns  and  shattered 
men,  preaching  the  only  essential  Gospel 
which  men  care  to  hear,  the  spirituality  of 
man,  the  dignity  of  his  soul,  the  splendour 
of  his  faculty  for  sacrifice.  It  is  a  hard 
Gospel,  but  we  are  slowly  learning  it.  And 
it  is  not  a  gospel  of  words  ;  it  is  a  gospel  of 
examples.  The  examples  are  our  own  sons, 
and  through  them  we  are  being  educated 
into  truer  ways  of  thought,  and  loftier 
modes  of  life. 


i68 


THE    DAY   AFTER    TO-MORROW 

The  fog's  on  the  world  to-day. 
It  will  he  on  the  world  to-morrow  ; 

Not  all  the  strength  of  the  sun 
Can  drive  his  bright  spears  thorough. 

Yesterday  and  to-day 

Have  been  heavy  with  labour  and  sorrow  ; 
I  should  faint  if  I  did  not  see 

The  day  that  is  after  to-morrow. 

Hope  in  the  world  there  is  none, 
Nor  from  yesterday  can  I  borrow  : 

But  I  think  that  I  feel  the  wind 
Of  the  dawn  that  comes  after  to-morrow. 

The  cause  of  the  peoples  I  serve 
To-day  in  impatience  and  sorrow 

Once  more  is  defeated — and  yet 

'Twill  be  won — the  day  after  to-morrow. 

And  for  me,  with  spirit  elate 

The  mire  and  the  fog  I  press  thorough, 
For  Heaven  shines  under  the  cloud 

Of  the  day  that  is  after  to-morrow. 


169 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


In  that  same  room,  where,  in  the  Christmas 
of  1914,  the  words  were  spoken  which  were 
the  sword  of  separation  thrust  through  all 
our  pleasant  forms  of  life,  we  have  met 
again.  My  two  younger  sons  are  not  with 
us  ;  they  are  busy  somewhere  on  the  grey 
waste  of  the  estranging  seas.  Coningsby, 
more  fortunate  than  they,  has  found  the 
way  back  to  the  old  home.  The  visit  was 
unexpected,  so  totally  outside  all  prediction, 
that  it  seems  almost  unreal.  As  we  look 
back  upon  it,  it  is  as  though  we  had  dreamed 
a  dream,  in  which  a  blessed  apparition  had 
met  us  and  spoken  with  a  human  voice. 

First  there  came  the  news  that  he  was 
wounded ;    then  hasty  scrawls  written  by 

171 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

an  injured  hand,  assuring  us  of  his  recovery  ; 
then  a  cautious  message  saying  that  it 
might  be  possible  for  him  to  spend  his  con- 
valescence leave  at  home.  The  news  was 
too  good  to  be  believed,  but  at  least  we 
were  encouraged  to  be  hopeful.  At  last 
there  came  a  blessed  cable,  informing  us 
that  he  would  leave  Liverpool  upon  a 
certain  date.  Some  one  told  us  that  such 
cables  were  usually  delayed  till  the  ship  was 
well  at  sea,  or  within  sight  of  the  port  of 
destination.  He  might  actually  be  landing 
on  the  date  when  we  received  the  message. 
Would  it  be  in  Canada  or  America  ?  We 
did  not  know.  Out  of  the  mysterious  and 
secret  seas  he  would  appear  presently,  and 
we  knew  no  more. 

We  decided  that  he  was  almost  certain  to 
land  in  Canada,  and  hurried  off  to  Montreal. 
We  were  summering  in  a  small  Canadian 
village  at  the  time,  upon  the  shores  of  Lake 
Ontario,  in  a  simple  hostelry  known  as  The 
Village  Inn.     It  was  Sunday  when  the  cable 

172 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

came,  and  it  amuses  me  to  recollect  that  we 
left  in  such  haste  that  I  had  to  borrow  all 
the  money  in  the  exchequer  of  the  inn,  for 
the  bank  was  closed,  and,  I  was  informed, 
all  its  cash  was  in  a  safe  whose  time-lock 
could  not  be  opened  until  Monday  morning. 
Perhaps  we  should  not  have  made  so  swift 
an  exodus  but  for  the  counsel  of  a  young 
aviator  who  assured  us  that  he  had  received 
just  such  a  cable  from  his  brother,  and 
discovered  later  that  the  cable  and  his 
brother  had  arrived  simultaneously.  The 
good  folk  staying  with  us  in  the  inn  were 
almost  as  excited  as  ourselves.  They  had 
sons  and  brothers  in  the  war,  and  could 
understand.  A  father  whose  son  would 
come  back  no  more  saw  us  off,  and  helped  us 
with  our  baggage,  betraying  by  no  word  or 
sign  his  sense  of  the  contrast  between  our 
happiness  and  his  own  desolation  of  spirit. 
We  were  to  have  met  that  afternoon  a  lady 
whose  husband  had  been  killed,  whose  only 
son  was  a  prisoner  in  Germany,  from  whom 

173 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

no  news  had  come  for  six  months.  We  did 
not  meet  her  because  it  would  have  seemed 
Uke  parading  our  own  gladness  before  her 
mournful  eyes.  But  probably  we  were 
wrong  in  this  excess  of  sensitiveness,  for 
among  all  these  Canadian  folk  there  was 
more  than  fortitude  ;  there  was  that  unsel- 
fish temper  which  rejoices  in  another's  joy 
while  one's  own  heart  is  broken. 

At  Montreal  there  was  no  news.  The 
military  authorities  showed  us  every  cour- 
tesy, but  they  knew  nothing.  Our  cherished 
plan  to  meet  Coningsby  the  moment  he 
should  land  broke  down,  just  as  a  similar 
plan  had  broken  down  some  months  before 
in  London,  when  he  was  returning  on  his 
leave  from  the  Front.  War  has  no  concern 
in  individual  dramas.  We  waited  three 
days,  haunting  the  railway  station,  seeing 
wounded  men  arrive  and  men  departing 
from  their  last  leave,  and  then  reluctantly 
returned  to  New  York.  A  week  passed 
in  silence,  and  then    came  the  telegram 

174 


THE  HAPPY   WARRIOR 

saying  that  Coningsby  was  at  Quebec. 
The  next  night  he  arrived  in  New  York. 
There  was  a  frenzied  meeting  at  the  Grand 
Central  Station,  which  the  stolid  spectators 
watched  with  some  amusement.  The  sten- 
torian official  who  ropes  off  the  waiting 
crowd  with  such  callous  insolence  must 
have  been  amazed  as  well  as  amused,  for 
his  rope  was  of  no  avail  against  an  excited 
mother  and  sister  who  dodged  beneath  it, 
and  hung  upon  the  neck  of  their  returning 
soldier.' 

If  war  brings  hours  of  agony,  it  also  has 
its  great  exalted  moments.  Not  till  that 
moment  when  we  stood  in  the  Grand  Central 
Station,  did  we  realize  how  keen  had  been 
the  dread  that  our  last  separation  might  be 
final.  That  we  should  really  see  him  again 
had  in  it  all  the  wonder  of  a  resurrection. 
The  father's  words,  in  Christ's  tenderest 
parable,  rang  in  my  ears  :  "  This  my  son 
was  dead  and  is  alive  again,  he  was  lost  and 
is  found."     It  was  worth  paying  months  of 

175 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

pain  for  that  moment.  All  the  long  arrears 
of  sorrow  were  overpaid  in  that  supreme 
happiness. 


II 

For  a  month  he  has  lived  with  us,  and  I 
am  now  able  to  understand,  as  I  never  did 
before,  his  attitude  to  life.  Letters  written 
from  the  battlefield  may  be  never  so 
truthful  and  sincere,  but  they  are  apt  to 
be  the  record  of  exceptional  moods  of 
feeling  and  experience.  Before  the  sober- 
ing and  solemn  vision  of  death,  never 
absent  for  a  day  or  for  an  hour,  the  soul 
may  rise  to  great  heights,  not  afterwards 
sustained.  From  mounts  of  transfiguration 
we  come  down  to  the  petty  atmosphere  of 
common  life,  and  men  do  not  always  bring 
their  transfiguration  with  them.  The  first 
impression  I  record  is  that  with  my  son  the 
transfiguration  of  mind  and  character  is 
permanent.     It  did  not  fade  into  the  light 

176 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

of  common  day,  nor  lose  its  lustre  when 
brought  into  contact  with  the  commonplace 
of  life. 

Amid  so  much  that  was  abnormal,  he 
had  remained  normal.  Much  had  been 
added  to  his  life,  but  its  original  texture  was 
unchanged.  He  was  as  boyish  as  ever  in 
his  simple  love  of  life,  as  sweet-tempered 
and  considerate,  as  eager  to  please  and  to 
be  pleased.  Had  he  sat  in  sombre  silence, 
with  his  inward  eye  fixed  upon  the  horrors 
he  had  seen,  I  could  have  understood  it  and 
forgiven  him.  I  had  prepared  myself  for 
something  of  the  kind,  but  I  found  I  had 
been  mistaken.  Why,  he  could  even  jest, 
and  play  off  practical  jokes  on  me  in  quite 
the  old  irreverent  style.  It  is  a  little  thing 
to  mention,  but  not  without  significance, 
that  one  day  he  dressed  up  a  fifteenth- 
century  life-size  figure  of  an  eminent  saint 
which  I  possess  in  my  hat  and  coat,  and 
with  elaborate  seriousness  informed  me  that 
a  famous  editor  was  waiting  for  me  in  the 

177 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

drawing-room,  much  enjoying  my  dis- 
comfiture when  I  returned  from  a  silent 
interview  with  this  strange  efiigy.  As  long 
as  a  man  can  jest  and  enjoy  a  jest,  we  are 
under  no  doubt  of  his  normality. 

I  had  often  wondered  whether  at  the 
termination  of  the  war  he  would  be  able  to 
resume  his  old  interests  in  life  and  literature. 
He  himself  had  shared  that  wonder,  for  he 
knew  not  only  how  the  big  things  of  war 
make  all  other  things  look  insignificant, 
but  how  the  mind,-  withdrawn  from  daily 
tasks,  grows  indifferent  to  them,  and  loses 
the  efiiciency  to  perform  them.  But  on  the 
third  day  after  reaching  home  he  appeared 
at  breakfast  in  the  old  tweeds  he  used  to 
wear  whUe  writing.  The  soldier,  with  his 
uniform,  had  disappeared  ;  his  place  was 
taken  by  the  writer.  After  breakfast  he 
went  quietly  to  his  little  study  at  the  top  of 
the  house,  and  in  a  few  hours  was  hard  at 
work  upon  a  book.  Looking  into  the  room, 
I  saw  a  scene  familiar  by  years  of  use  and 

178 


THE  HAPPY   WARRIOR 

wont :  the  writing-board  upon  his  knees, 
his  head  bent  over  it,  and  a  cloud  of  tobacco 
smoke  that  hung  like  a  misty  aura  round 
him.  It  seemed  as  though  he  had  never  been 
away.  He  had  stepped  back  into  the  nor- 
mal as  a  derailed  wheel  fits  its  flange  to  the 
rail  again,  and  glides  smoothly  on  its  way. 
His  mind,  deflected  from  its  true  task  by 
a  violent  force,  resumed  it  again  with  per- 
fect naturalness  the  moment  the  pressure 
was  removed.  The  hand  that  had  fired  so 
many  guns  resumed  the  pen  with  delightful 
ease,  and  that  range  of  faculty  for  which 
war  had  no  use  proved  to  be  not  abandoned 
or  destroyed,  but  only  in  abeyance. 

People  who  talk  with  prophetic  melan- 
choly and  misgiving  of  the  brutalizing 
effects  of  war  may  find  something  in  these 
facts  that  is  worth  their  consideration. 
War  is  certainly  inhuman,  but  it  does  not 
dehumanize.  It  is  a  false  rhetoric  which 
labels  it  as  "  organized  murder."  It  is 
rather  organized  justice,  and  a  passion  for 

N  179 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

justice  exalts  rather  than  debases  men.  It 
is  hatred  that  dehumanizes  men,  hatred 
which  is  the  root  of  murder  ;  but  the  singu- 
lar thing  is  that  men  can  be  engaged  in  a 
collective  antagonism  without  any  spirit  of 
hatred  towards  individuals.  The  British 
soldier  does  not  hate  the  personal  antagonist 
whom  he  calls,  half-humorously  and  half- 
affectionately,  "  Fritzie  !  "  He  has  to  kill 
him  if  he  can,  but  since  there  is  no  hatred  in 
his  killing  the  deed  has  no  relation  to  the 
crime  of  murder.  A  very  brief  moment  of 
reflection  is  sufficient  to  assure  us  that  the 
man  whose  trade  is  war  is  by  no  means 
deficient  in  the  virtues  of  pity  and  humanity. 
Some  of  the  greatest  soldiers  have  been 
both  the  most  tender-hearted  and  the  most 
pious  of  men.  Robert  E.  Lee  remained  a 
great  Christian  through  all  the  slaughter  of 
the  Civil  War,  and  Lord  Roberts  was  an 
eminently  pious  man.  What  war  really 
does  is  to  develop  the  sterner  virtues  of  a 
man,  as  we  can  all  see  ;  but  it  also  develops 

i8o 


THE  HAPPY   WARRIOR 

his  tenderness  and  pity  by  the  constant 
appeal  made  to  him  by  suffering,  which  is 
something  the  pacifist  is  incapable  of  seeing 
or  of  understanding. 

But  perhaps  it  is  not  necessary  to  persuade 
reasonable  persons  that  there  is  a  strong 
conservative  force  in  human  nature  which 
enables  men  to  survive  abnormal  condi- 
tions, and  glide  back  into  normal  modes  of 
life  with  surprising  ease.  Men  continually 
achieve  this  transposition.  It  happens  after 
severe  sickness,  after  adventures  in  foreign 
lands,  after  great  reversals  of  fortune. 
There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  war  is  any 
exception  to  the  rule.  The  novel  grip  of 
event  which  takes  a  man  from  sedentary 
occupations  and  flings  him  forth  as  ,an 
explorer  or  a  lion  hunter  into  the  African 
jungle  is  as  dislocating  to  normal  modes 
of  life  as  the  event  which  makes  the 
conventional  man  a  soldier.  The  returned 
explorer  and  adventurer  soon  finds  his 
place     in    ordinary    life    again,    and    the 

Na  i8i 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

soldier  will  do   the   same   with    an   equal 
adaptability. 

Next  to  this  complete  normality  of  my 
son,  the  thing  that  struck  me  was  his 
absolute  tranquillity  of  spirit.  I  had  re- 
marked this  quality  in  his  letters,  but  it 
was  much  more  impressive  in  the  uncon- 
scious revelations  of  his  speech.  He  was 
happy,  but  it  was  happiness  with  a  differ- 
ence. It  had  no  relation  to  material  desires. 
I  do  not  mean  that  he  was  indifferent  to  the 
wholesome  pleasures  of  life,  or  to  the  success 
of  his  own  work,  but  these  things  were 
regarded  as  of  relative  unimportance.  They 
were  worth  having,  but  only  as  pleasant 
accessories,  not  as  vital  necessities  of  life. 
The  agitation  of  personal  ambition  had 
disappeared.  His  happiness  sprang  from 
within,  from  the  deep  fountain  of  a  hidden 
peace.  And,  studying  this  new  temper  in 
him,  my  mind  recalled  the  poem  of  Words- 
worth's which  he  calls  "The  Happy  War- 
rior." Wordsworth  wrote  with  Lord  Nelson 

182 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

in  his  mind,  but  also,  as  he  tells  us,  with  the 
memory  of  his  own  brother  John,  who  was 
a  naval  officer  to  whom  was  given  no  great 
occasion  of  heroic  conduct  or  triumphant 
death.  He  perished  by  shipwreck,  but 
Wordsworth  recognized  in  him  the  same 
qualities  that  made  the  great  Admiral 
immortal.  The  theatre  of  action  differed, 
but  the  movements  of  the  spirit  were  the 
same,  and  are  the  catholic  inheritance  of 
all  who  are  governed  by  the  same  ideals. 

What  these  ideals  are  Wordsworth  states 
at  length,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  recapitulate 
them.  But  there  is  one  passage  which  was 
to  me  so  vitalized  by  the  manifest  temper 
of  my  son  that  it  describes  better  than  my 
words  can  do  what  that  temper  was.  The 
Happy  Warrior  is  he 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 
Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim, 
And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  he  in  waitj 
For  wealth  or  honours  or  for  worldly  fame  ; 


183 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  Hfe, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace  ; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind, 

Is  happy  as  a  Lover  ;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  Uke  a  Man  inspired  ; 

And  through  the  heat  of  conflict  keeps  the  law 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw. 

The  lines  are  capable  of  an  exact  analysis, 
but  it  is  enough  to  remark  where  Words- 
worth discovers  the  authentic  root  of  happi- 
ness. It  is  in  the  satisfaction  of  being  able 
to  meet  great  issues.  It  is  in  the  noble 
self-acclamation  of  a  soul  that  has  vindi- 
cated its  capacity  for  heroism.  The  Happy 
Warrior  now  sees  what  he  foresaw,  but  sees 
it  not  only  without  dismay,  but  with  the 
calm  resolution  of  a  mind  bent  on  high  ends, 
and  dedicated  to  them. 

In  those  long  conversations  which  we 
had  through  those  brief  crowded  weeks  of 
renewed  communion,  there  was  no  attempt 
made  to  disguise  the  horrors  of  war. 
Neither  were  they  paraded.     To  him  they 

184 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


seemed  not  remarkable.  We  drew  them 
from  him,  for  he  was  unwilling  to  lay  stress 
on  them.  The  thing  he  did  lay  stress  upon 
was  the  spiritual  significance  of  the  things 
he  had  witnessed  and  endured.  We  saw, 
through  his  eyes,  men  driving  their  guns  into 
battle  over  dead  and  living  bodies,  intent 
only  on  the  immediate  duty  which  brooked 
no  delay.  We  saw  maimed  men,  without 
the  least  consciousness  of  heroism,  giving 
up  their  own  turn  for  medical  attention  for 
the  benefit  of  others  worse  wounded  than 
themselves.  We  saw  young  officers  writing 
their  last  letters  home  before  going  into 
action,  with  the  clear  knowledge  that  they 
would  be  dead  in  a  few  hours,  yet  with 
perfect  calmness. 

I  think  he  would  not  have  realized  that 
the  stories  he  had  to  tell  were  of  any  value, 
unless  we  had  persuaded  him  to  the  con- 
trary. They  were  the  commonplaces  of 
his  daily  life,  and  why  should  other  folk 
think   them   remarkable  ?     He   was   even 

185 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

unwilling  at  first  to^wear  his  uniform  in  the 
streets,  because  he  did  not  wish  to  be  stared 
at  as  exceptional.  It  was  only  when  he 
realized  that  America  also  wore  khaki  that 
he  resumed  his  own.  If  I  had  not  persuaded 
him  to  employ  a  court  stenographer  to  re- 
cord his  three  public  speeches,  much  that 
he  had  to  tell  would  have  been  lost.  There 
was  a  modesty  in  this  temper,  but  it  was  not 
altogether  modesty ;  it  was  the  sincere 
conviction  that  anything  that  he  and  his 
comrades  had  done  was  "  all  in  the  day's 
work/'  and  deserved  no  special  praise. 

He  spoke  of  these  comrades  in  arms  with 
deep  affection. 

"  Queer  to  recollect  how  I  once  valued  men 
for  their  intellectual  sympathies,  isn't  it  ?  " 
he  said.  "With  most  of  these  men  I  haven't  a 
thought  in  common,  so  far  as  the  intellectual 
life  is  concerned.  As  a  writer  of  books  they 
would  probably  hold  me  in  contempt. 
But  we've  learned  not  to  judge  each  other 
in  that  way.     We've  found  each  other's 

i86 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

spiritual  qualities.  When  a  man  leaps 
forward  to  take  your  chance  of  death,  you 
don't  inquire  whether  he's  read  your  books. 
You  yourself  forget  you've  ever  written 
any.  All  you  remember  is  that  he's  a  true 
kind  of  superman,  and  you  can't  think  of 
anything  finer  than  to  be  a  little  like  him." 

He  spoke  sometimes  of  death  with  a  kind 
of  quiet  scom.  He  had  no  desire  to  die — 
far  from  it — and  he  believed  he  would  not. 
But  he  had  found  out  that  the  intimidation 
of  death  was  a  vain  thing.  The  terror  men 
felt  at  death  was  based  on  a  false  idea  of 
death  as  abnormal.  We  saw  it  in  isolated 
instances.  But  where  you  saw  it  in  the 
mass  it  became  normal.  It  was  as  catholic 
as  birth.     It  was  as  common  as  breathing. 

His  constantly  recurring  testimony  was 
that  he  was  happy.  He  was  happy  through 
a  certain  unification  of  life,  the  bending  of 
the  will  to  one  deliberate  purpose  which 
was  not  personal.  "  The  weight  of  chance 
desires  "    was  lifted  from  his  heart.     Life 

187 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

was  no  longer  self-centred.  It  is  a  very  old 
discovery  ;  but  in  civil  life  it  is  hard  to 
make  it,  because  the  occasions  of  heroism 
are  not  thrust  on  one.  War  brings  the 
occasion  to  every  man.  It  challenges  men, 
summons  them  to  a  new  valuation  of  their 
aims  of  life,  and  makes  the  pursuit  of  per- 
sonal happiness  appear  a  sorry  business. 
It  offers  them,  even  the  humblest  of  them, 
the  rare  joy  of  self-renunciation. 

"  You  know  how  I  have  always  loved 
France,"  he  said,  "  and  you  remember  my 
intense  pleasure  in  visiting  Tours,  Les 
Baux,  and  all  those  other  lovely  places 
where  romance  lingers,  and  ^beauty  seems 
indestructible.  Yet,  as  I  recall  my  feelings, 
I  know  that  even  then  I  was  not  truly 
happy.  I  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  I  was 
only  seeing  France  with  an  artist's  eye,  and 
using  her  as  a  means  for  my  own  gratifi- 
cation. The  France  I  see  to-day  is  a 
battered  waste  of  mud  and  ugliness.  It 
is  pock-marked  with  shells,  its  soil  reeks 

i88 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

with  corruption,  and  there's  not  even  a  tree 
left.  Yet  I  am  happier  among  these  shat- 
tered French  towns  than  I  ever  was  at 
Tours  and  Les  Baux.  I  suppose  it  is 
because  in  the  old  days  I  was  taking  some- 
thing from  France,  and  now  I'm  giving 
something  to  her.  It  makes  a  wonderful 
difference  whether  your  life  is  taking  or 
giving." 

And  there,  no  doubt,  for  him  and  for 
others,  is  found  the  real  root  of  happiness. 
It  withers  in  the  soil  of  self,  it  thrives  in 
the  soil  of  self-renunciation.  Fed  with  too 
much  sunshine  it  bears  the  poisonous 
flower  of  egoistic  satisfaction  ;  nourished 
with  blood  it  blossoms  with  the  lily  of 
peace,  and  carries  in  its  heart  the  light 
that  never  was  on  sea  or  land. 

He  thought  that  religion,  like  courage, 
was  indigenous  in  men.  All  men  had  it, 
in  its  elemental  essence,  but  few  of  the  men 
he  lived  with  knew  much  about  its  forms. 
Probably  they  could  not  satisfy  the  most 

189 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 


lenient  Church  on  earth  that  they  were 
proper  candidates  for  membership,  but  they 
had  nevertheless  what  Cromwell  called 
"  the  root  of  the  matter  "   in  them. 

"  An  army's  very  like  a  school,"  he  said. 
"  The  cardinal  ethic  of  the  schoolboy  is  that 
he  must  play  the  game.  That's  the  top- 
notch  of  schoolboy  morality.  The  soldier 
reasons  just  in  the  same  way.  If  a  man 
plays  the  game,  God  will  look  after  him, 
and  he'll  be  all  right  whatever  happens.  If 
he  doesn't,  it  won't  do  him  much  good  to  go 
sneaking  to  God  with  all  sorts  of  excuses, 
for  God  won't  Usten  to  him.  Reading  the 
Bible,  praying  and  singing  hymns,  are  very 
good  things  in  their  way,  but  they  aren't 
religion.  Religion  is  doing  your  bit,  and 
not  letting  other  fellows  down  because  you 
fail  to  do  it.  The  men  judge  the  chaplains 
entirely  by  that  test.  They  won't  listen  to 
a  man,  if  they  think  he  isn't  as  brave  as 
they  are  ;  but  if  he  never  shirks,  and  is 
willing  to  face  peril  with  them,  they  believe 

190 


THE  HAPPY   WARRIOR 

in  him,  and  anything  that  he  says  to  them 
about  right  Hving  goes.  I've  known  lots 
of  religious  people,  but  I  very  often  think 
that  the  most  truly  religious  men  I  have 
met  are  those  chaps  who  don't  appear  to 
have  any  religion  at  all," 

"  What  will  happen  when  these  men,  all 
the  millions  of  them,  are  reincorporated  in 
civil  life  ?"  I  asked. 

"  What  will  happen  to  myself  ?"  he 
replied.  "  I  often  think  of  that.  I  sup- 
pose I  shall  go  on  writing,  but  I  know  I  shall 
write  in  a  new  way.  I  hope  I  shan't  have 
lost  the  sense  of  romance,  but  I  think  it 
will  be  romance  seen  from  a  totally  different 
angle.  It  will  be  the  romance  of  virtue — 
using  the  word  in  the  strict  Latin  sense 
— not  the  romance  of  man's  weaknesses, 
but  of  his  strength.  It  will  be  the  aus- 
tere romance  which  recognizes  in  man's 
struggle  for  spiritual  mastership  a  far 
more  fascinating  theme  than  his  mean 
adventures  in  the  conflicts  of  sex,  which 

191 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  SOLDIER 

leave  him  with  a  dirty  mind  and  a  dis- 
honoured soul." 

He  sat  silent  and  thoughtful  for  a 
moment,  and  then  continued  : 

"  But  I  suppose  what  you're  thinking  of 
is  what  effect  will  the  return  of  all  these 
men  to  civil  life  have  upon  society,  and  up- 
on religion.  As  regards  the  first,  there  is 
nothing  to  be  feared,  but  a  great  deal  to  be 
anticipated.  Pessimists  who  talk  gloomily 
about  the  prospects  of  lawlessness  when  the 
army  is  disbanded  talk  like  fools,  as  all 
pessimists  do,  because  they  won't  trust 
human  nature.  The  vast  majority  of  the 
men  will  return  to  the  occupations  they 
have  left.  A  good  many  won't  go  back  to 
sedentary  tasks — they  have  tasted  a  free 
life  in  the  open,  and  they'll  turn  their  backs 
on  cities  and  find  their  way  to  the  prairies 
and  the  mountains.  I  don't  remember 
that  there  was  any  serious  detriment  to 
society  after  the  American  Civil  War.  The 
great  leaders  became  captains  of  industry, 

192 


THE  HAPPY   WARRIOR 


and  so  forth,  and  the  greatest  became 
President  of  the  United  States.  The  rank 
and  file  brought  with  them  habits  of  dis- 
cipHne  which  made  them  capable  of  doing 
better  work  than  they'd  ever  done  before. 
The  same  thing  will  happen  after  this  war. 
The  returning  soldier  will  be  an  asset  to 
society  of  immense  value. 

"  But  he's  going  to  bring  new  ideils  with 
him,  be  sure  of  that.  He  will  be  a  thousand- 
fold more  democratic  than  when  he  enlisted. 
He'll  have  learned  the  great  lesson  of  ^valu- 
ing men  for  what  they  are,  not  for  what 
they  have.  And  this  lesson,  which  he  has 
learned  in  the  naked  contact  of  his  own  soul 
mth  other  souls,  is  going  to  have  its  effect 
on  popular  forms  of  religion.  He  won't  be 
accessible  to  the  old  selfish  motive  of  get- 
ting his  own  soul  saved,  as  the  formula  of 
religion.  He  has  learned  too  thoroughly 
the  prime  ethic  of  a  soldier's  life,  that  his 
first  business  is  to  think  of  others  before 
himself.     And  he  won't  have  any  use  for 

193 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

a  little  unheroic  religion  that  makes  no  call 
for  real  sacrifice.  If  the  Church  can  get  rid 
of  her  pettiness,  and  offer  him  a  big  job 
that's  worth  doing,  she'll  recruit  him ;  if  she 
can't,  she'll  lose  him.  And  I'm  quite  sure  he 
won't  pay  the  least  attention  to  creeds  and 
dogmas.  They  won't  interest  him.  He's 
been  accustomed  to  measure  men  by  deeds, 
not  words,  and  he'll  go  on  doing  it.  War 
has  burned  out  the  unrealities  for  him,  and 
he  will  look  for  a  religion  that  is  real.  If  he 
can  find  it,  he'll  embrace  it  ;  if  the  Church 
has  nothing  to  offer  him  but  pietistic  camou- 
flage, he'll  go  off  on  his  own  road,  and  either 
disdain  the  conventional  Church  or,  perhaps, 
establish  a  new  Church  of  his  own.  That's 
a  great  idea,  isn't  it — a  Soldier's  Church? 
But  it  has  sense  in  it.  Don't  we  speak  of 
the  Church  Militant  ?  Only  the  last  feature 
of  the  Church  as  we  know  it  is  militancy. 
Is  that  an  answer  to  your  question  ?" 

I  owned  that  it  was  ;  and,  as  I  reflected 
on  it,  I  began  to  see  a  dawning  vision  of  the 

194 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

regenerating  work  of  War.  I  saw  War  not 
only  as  destructive,  but  as  creative  ;  I  saw 
it  as  a  powerful  solvent,  in  which  old  forms 
of  thought  and  life  were  dissolved,  but  also 
as  a  crystallizing  force,  combining  into  new 
forms  the  latent  spiritualities  of  men. 

"  There's  a  passage  of  Emerson's,*'  I  said, 
"  which  you've  often  heard  me  quote.  He 
is  speaking  of  the  Civil  War,  which,  to  a 
man  like  himself  of  philosophic  mind  and 
quiet  literary  habits,  was  an  unspeakable 
calamity.  Yet  this  is  what  he  says  :  '  I 
shall  always  respect  War  hereafter.  The 
waste  of  life,  the  dreary  havoc  of  comfort 
and  time,  are  overpaid  by  the  vistas  it 
opens  of  Eternal  Life,  Eternal  Law,  recon- 
structing and  upbuilding  society.'  " 

*'  Yes,  that's  profoundly  true,"  he  said. 
"  I  used  to  think  when  I  heard  you  quote 
those  wordslthat  it  was  easy  for  us  to  be 
optimistic  about  the  results  of  a  suffering 
which  we'd  never  endured.  Well,  I've 
endured  it,  and  1  believe.     You  have  en- 

195 


THE  FATHER  OF  A   SOLDIER 

that  struggle,  I  should  have  for  ever  for- 
feited my  right  to  happiness.  I  know  also 
that  in  giving  all  I  had  I  have  gained  much 
more  than  I  have  lost.  I  have  found  the 
Garden  of  Peace  that  lies  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hill  called  Calvary  : 

I  am  one  with  my  kind, 
I  embrace  the  purpose  of  God,  and  the  doom  assigned. 


THE    END. 


Printed  in  England  by  the  Garden  City  Press  Lid.,Lefchworth.  Herts. 


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